Hetalia theories (A Gory Demise)
by JossyRose
Summary: The nations were not always countries, but humans, reincarnated in an alternate universe, better suited for them; a second chance at life before they go to Heaven or Hell, given better bodies with a chance of friends and family. This was not my idea, I've seen these around, but have read very few of them. They will be Creepypasta-esc, considering a character dies in each chapter.
1. Liechtenstein

**A/N This is a rewrite of the original chapter. It has the same concept, but is longer, more detailed, and in my opinion, better. **

The rain poured down harshly over her as she stumbled through the streets of her home in Switzerland. Maybe…this hadn't been such a good idea after all. She sneezed into her arm, sniffling a few times, before coughing herself into a fit. It wasn't the cold or damp, she knew, it was an illness she had been accumulating for weeks, but it did make this whole "running away" thing much more difficult. Liana leaned against the wall of a house, resting her hand on the wooden surface, and supporting her weight mostly with the structure.

Her stomach rumbled angrily, but she had no means of getting food, not that she had too much to eat at home either. Memories raced through her mind. She knew she had cost him money and that he had to work very hard just to feed the two of them, but she worked hard as well, and wasn't that the point of being a parent, anyway? It wasn't her fault that she was born, and honestly, at the moment, she was wishing she hadn't been. It also wasn't her fault that her mother had died, and that he was stuck raising a child by himself. She wished that hadn't happened either. He was her father, he was supposed to love her, and protect her, and feed her…but he looked out for himself first, and then she was left to pick at the scraps, in a figurative, and sometimes literal sense.

The realization, though, hit her hard. It filled her with a deep, excruciating pain, followed by an almost empty, hollow sort of feeling. He had never wanted her. She had not been a planned child. Liana was a surprise. An unwanted surprise that had caused the death of her mother and left her in the twisted strings of fate, forcing her upon a man who had no interest in children and received very little wages for his labor. She used up his resources and he resented her for that.

"He probably won't come look for me…" she whispered hoarsely, before coughing again.

She forced her feet forward, knowing she would die if she fell asleep out here, but…it was so hard…and she was so weak…so very weak…

Liana was tired, too, and it would be…so easy to simply…go to sleep…

The child leaned against the wall with her entire body now, and slid down to the damp ground. Her eyes stared up at the water that fell down upon her, until they closed, and she smiled.

Everything seemed to fade. She was so calm.

A soft warmth filled her, despite the conditions which surrounded her form, and she felt…a certain weightlessness take hold of her, until her mind went blank and she would never awaken here again.

In the morning, she would be found by the horrified owners of the home she had fallen against, but she would not be there for that. She would be happy again, with no concern or memory of the life she had once lived.

/

She tumbled against one of the walls of her country, about ready to give up…just give in…

Her life had not been the best here. It had been hard. But the girl persevered, despite this. Her people, they were starving, and she had little inside of her fueling her actions as well. The hope she had once held seemed to be fading. There was little she could do.

Her feet slowed, before stopping, and she forced her weight upon the structure which was currently supporting her weak form. Tears dripped down her cheeks, along with the water, still falling from the ashy sky and landing coldly on her pale skin.

She just wanted to…fall asleep. It would be so easy…

"Are you alright?"

Her eyes shot open to meet the emerald ones of a young man. Why did he look so…familiar somehow? She was sure she had never met him before.

"Yes…" a soft, breathy whisper was all she could muster at this moment.

The man looked around, before addressing her again, "What is your name?"

"I am Lichtenstein…"

"Switzerland," the blonde introduced, holding out his hand to the child, "Come with me."

**A/N Last time, Switzerland was her brother in his human life, but I had a different idea, so just bear with me. Anyway, as I stated again, I went with an actual name in Lichtenstein, Liana, instead of Lilli. Her name is not official, so… **


	2. Switzerland

Did clouds cover the sky, or was that the ash of smoky gunpowder that made the air dark. It was an impossibility to tell. Bach wiped at his bleeding cheek with his sleeve, huffing unsteadily, wincing with each inhalation. He had to keep going though. The eighteen-year-old forced himself behind some rubble; it should cover him for the time being.

He had promised. A verbal contract, sealed with the pinky of his baby sister, who was only seven years old, and the little neighbor girl, not too drastically older than his own sibling. Their images rang clear in his mind as he closed green eyes, forcing himself to breathe…just breath, and think of them.

The neighbor girl, six years his junior; he had met her when she was but a year older than his own sister was currently. As a young teenager, Bach had emerged from his home to do the chores out in the field. He recalled this clearly; it almost felt tangible, as if he were back in that time when he was still just a naïve child, where the worst thing to have happened to him was being scolded or, heaven forbid!, grounded by his mother and father. The air had been warm, but the crisp breeze rustling through the grass cooled down the summer heat, so it was not too unbearable. The boy had fed the horses and cut the grass, had helped his mother tend the garden, and was now laying out in the grass, staring soothingly at the blue sky, observing the white, puffy clouds floating lazily ahead. He knew he would finish his chores soon, there was no harm in taking a small break, right? So long as he completed the work by the end of the day, his parents had nothing to complain about.

The image of the face of a little girl startled the boy, causing him to sit up suddenly and nearly clash their skulls together. Fortunately, the small child had enough foresight to step backward a bit as the teenager composed himself to his usual blank expression, a defense mechanism he had recently developed due to the teasing at school. He now always wore that vacant face, lest it be replaced by the fury which sometimes burst out of him. Unstable?, maybe, but it was far better, in his opinion, to be seen as unstable and a threat, than an easy target.

"Ja?" his voice sounded almost stern, and seemingly on reflex, the girl looked down, as if she were being reprimanded.

It took a few moments for the boy to realize that the soft heaving of her shoulders was the result of quiet sobbing. His eyes widened and he rose into a kneeling position, placing his hands gently on her shoulders.

"Are you alright, kind?" he whispered as tenderly as he ever would be.

This might have been what his parents sometimes referred to as "paternal instinct", or maybe it was the result of being an older brother now, though this girl was at least half a decade older than his own sister. Either way, even he was surprised by his willingness to comfort a child he had never met previously, but he was too concerned for her at the moment to pay too much mind to the contrast of his character.

"Shh, kleines mädchen, I didn't hurt you, did I?"

The child shook her head, then looked up, wiping slowly at her still teary eyes, then lifting her gaze to meet his. "No, I…did not mean to scare you," was her tiny response.

Bach could not help it; he chuckled softly and stood, still keeping one hand on the younger's shoulder. He smiled fondly and shook his head, "You did not scare me, you only surprised me. So you aren't hurt?"

"No, sir."

The adolescent was slightly taken aback by the formal address, "No need for that. Call me Bach. Will you tell me your name, liebchen?"

Now that the female realized that this older boy was not angry with her, and that she had not messed up, she smiled and responded cheerily, "Liana!"

"Liana, such a pretty name," Bach cooed.

The two of them talked, and after a few moments of the little girl beginning to open up to the kind boy, both children sat down together in the grass, until Liana finally stood, apologized, and said she needed to leave.

"If I'm late, I know I won't get supper," the younger said.

At the time, Bach hadn't understood the gravity of those words.

/

It was winter and the streets of Switzerland were frozen over with snow and ice. Still, that didn't stop young Liana's father from tossing her out into the snow like a broken toy. The little girl wept, her face red from her distress and the bitterness which nipped at her as she ran toward the now closed door, banging desperately.

"Vati! Vati! Please open the door!"

Bach was laying on the floor, playing with his younger sister. The little girl clapped happily as her brother worked his hardest to make her giggle. There were only two people he had met thus far who could cause him to behave in such a silly manner.

"Bach?"

The teenager straightened himself and turned, a blank expression now replacing his once grinning and laughing demeanor, "Yes Mutter?"

"We need more firewood."

The boy nodded and knelt down once more to little Agda.

"I need to go outside for a bit. Can you play by yourself, engelchen?"

The little girl nodded and Bach patted her head approvingly, affectionately, before exiting. His attention was immediately drawn to a sobbing figure in the front yard next to his. The teenager walked over, and as he drew nearer, recognized the small framed girl who lived next door. Squatting down next to the child, he set an unsure hand on Liana's shaking shoulder. It took a few moments, but the girl raised her head and looked at the boy next to her. After a little bit, she calmed her cries into occasional sniffles, but tears still fell from her green eyes.

"It's cold out here, Liana," Bach whispered, drawing the child closer to him, as if proving a point, "Why are you out here by yourself?"

Liana looked down, "Vati threw me out," she said so softly, it was almost undetectable.

If Bach had not been so close, he would not have heard her sad whisper. He repositioned himself so that he was sitting on the snow coated grown, and moved her so that her bare legs were distanced from the frozen earth.

The elder desired to question her about her temporary abandonment in this of all seasons, but figured she would not wish to talk about it, and also decided that it was none of his business anyway. Her stomach, betraying her, growled noisily and the girl pulled away, blushing.

"Have you had dinner yet?" the boy asked curiously. Surely her family did not eat so late that she would not have been fed yet. But, he hadn't eaten yet either.

She shook her head, "I usually…don't. Father eats and…there might be some for me after."

It took a moment for the words to register in his mind. Bach looked at her again, emotions somewhere between sympathy and anger flaring within him. The teenager sighed, not quite knowing what to do.

"I need to cut firewood for my house. If you wait until I am done and stay for a moment, I will return and bring you some food, alright?"

Liana nodded, and he stood, offering a hand out to her so she would not be seated on the cold. She allowed him to help her up.

When he had done as promised, handing her the majority of his portion of dinner, her face had lit up. He would never forget the expression. It had caused his heart to melt. Such a pitiful sight, being so excited for food. Afterward, if Liana had not been given food, she would stand outside near suppertime, and Bach would share his portion.

/

The soldier ducked to the side, then emerged above his covering, shooting at the enemies without quite seeing where they were before lowering his body again. Blood seeped from a wound in his side. Bach winced in pain, but moved to the left anyway, sneaking around a soldier who had not yet noticed him. He was at the perfect angle to get him in one shot if he just aimed right.

/

"Don't go!" the shrieking of a young girl rang out, "Bruder!"

"Go inside, Agda," the young man commanded sternly, not turning back.

"Bach…" another voice whispered.

Still, the male did not turn, but he knew who else was there.

"Bach…please…"

"This is not a choice," Bach muttered sadly, inclining his head, "I'll come back, I promise."

He took a step forward, then turned to face the two girls, immediately wishing he had not. Both females had teary eyes and pitiful expressions upon their angelic faces. The soon-to-be soldier sighed, running a hand through his messy blonde locks, then over his face.

"Agda," said girl looked up, "You will see me again. Liana," he turned to his neighbor, "I will come back for you. I'll save you."

The young man turned around again, but did not begin walking. Throwing one last glance over his shoulder, he vowed, "I promise."

/

The noise was loud. Deafening. His ears rang with the sudden sound. A gunshot. A puff of black powder filling his lungs as he was thrown backwards with the force. As he coughed, blood trickled down his chin. The crimson liquid seeped into the soil, but he still tried to get up. He couldn't die here; he had promised.

Bach coughed again, more liquid falling from his lips. Despite the agony it caused, the boy pulled himself to his knees, gravity pulling his torso forward, as he had not enough strength to keep himself upright. His face dug into the dirt. Bach used his elbows as support as he looked up.

The smoke stung his eyes and blurred his vision. He crawled. Many times, he collapsed. But he needed to live.

Tears stung his eyes and wiped tracks in his dirt stained cheeks. The images of his younger sister, of the little neighbor girl, they kept him moving…until he collapsed.

/

Emerald eyes blinked up at the blinding sun. A small, blonde haired child sat up, rubbing furiously at his face and blinking the splotches out of his vision. When he was able to see clearly, the boy noticed another child of brunette hair staring curiously at him. Within his small hands, the other boy was holding sheets of what appeared to be music notes scrawled across bars on paper.

"Guten tag," the blonde greeted hoarsely, coughing the scratchiness out of his voice.

"…Guten morgen, actually," the other corrected cautiously, "…ich heiße Austria."

"I am Switzerland," he said without a moment's hesitation.

He wasn't sure how he knew this information, but the words left his lips so easily that he knew it must be true. Austria accepted the statement with a smile and nod.

"Come with me," the brown haired one said after a moment, "I will show you around. You look lost."

"Danke," Switzerland replied curtly, standing, wobbling only slightly before following the first person he met in this world.


	3. America

He had grown up on these streets. Since he moved here with his mother, father, and twin brother, when the Texan family left the arid south for the bustling city, this had been his home. It was dangerous; it was crowded, but it was his. The New York City air was chilly with fall, but Alfred shed the cold when he stepped into the diner.

Alfred Jones was the stereotype of his high school. Not the brightest, but his tanned skin, toned muscles, energetic blue eyes, and light brown hair that held a tint of honey streaks when it caught the light just perfectly well made up for that. Popular. Athletic. A girl's fantasy and a guy's ambition.

His footsteps squeaked against the yellowing, once sea foam green tile as he approached the table he spotted his friends and brother at. The aroma of sizzling Kobe burgers, baking sesame buns, and fresh cut vegetables filled the family-run establishment. A home away from home for the five teens. Alfred lightly pushed Eric, who had been in the middle of speaking, playfully telling his friend to scoot over. The black haired Senior obliged.

"We ordered without you," Jessie smiled, not really apologetically, "Got your usual."

"Wooh! Just means I get fed faster," Al grinned, pumping his fist into the air and accidentally elbowing his friend in the ribs.

"Yowch! Hey, watch it, wouldja?"

Alfred flashed a toothpaste commercial perfect grin, nose scrunching up with the motion as it did.

"Sorry man," he laughed airily, though his tone indicated that he was not, indeed, apologetic.

His friend paused a moment, then, closing his eyes, shook his head with a small smile. Eric gave a mischievous glance to the two sitting across from him then shoved Alfred as hard as he could, nearly causing the brunette to tumble out of the booth and straight into a startled, young waitress. His only saving grace was his quick reflexes, gripping onto the edge of the table the moment the impact hit him. The server squeaked, stepping back with wide, brown eyes.

"Eh, sorry, Miss," Alfred said weakly, tossing a glare to his friend as he straightened himself and the woman walked off after accepting the teenager's apology.

He pouted playfully and grumbled, "No fair. That could've ended badly."

Eric shrugged, "But it didn't!"

Idle conversation filled the air around the table until a boy in Jessica's class (Lance, was it) walked over with a tray of food, setting the respective food items in front of each student.

"Thanks man!" Alfred smiled before immediately digging into his burger.

Jessica sighed, but with a soft smirk on her lips. Lance nodded and walked away without a word, seemingly disgruntled. Mathew picked up a couple fries in between his thumb and forefinger and placed them in his mouth, but did not eat much more than that, taking to sip on his water whilst observing all of the people in the restaurant, occasionally tuning into the words of his brother and his brother's friends.

"Mattie?"

Mathew looked up, "Yeah, Al?"

"You alright, man? You seem a bit…vacant…"

"Hm?" Mathew smiled weakly and forced an airy laugh, "Yeah, sorry, bro. Just thinking is all."

"About what?" his brother pressed.

"What? Oh, um, nothing. Don't worry about it. So what were you guys saying?"

"Oh yeah!" Alfred perked up, "I'm so excited for the game tomorrow. Last one of the year and we're totally gonna win!"

As the group of friends talked and ate, Mathew stared down at his food, picking at it numbly.

/

"Hey, Mattie?"

The younger twin jumped as the door to his room was opened and his brother's head appeared. He shoved something under his pillow and turned, hoping Alfred didn't notice the pink rims around his eyes.

"Knock next time! You scared me!" Mathew shouted, though it still was much quieter than his sibling's normal 'talking' voice, so truly, it was not much of a shout.

Alfred was taken aback by his brother's fierceness, but laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck, pink tinting his cheeks.

"Sorry, bro, just wanted to know if you had the homework assignment for history."

"You didn't write it down?" Mathew asked incredulously, though he realized he really shouldn't have been surprised, "I'm in a higher class. I have a different assignment. Why don't you ask Jessica, or Ryan?"

"Alright, I'll try Ryan. Jessi isn't answering."

The elder twin retracted, but Mathew stopped him, standing and handing his brother his notebook.

"Here are my notes. They should help you. Just give it back tomorrow morning; I need it."

"Thanks, Matt," Alfred grinned, "I promise I'll get them to you before your class."

Mathew sighed. Somehow he didn't believe that, but it was too late to change his mind now. As his brother left, Mathew sighed and sat down heavily on his bed.

In his own room, Alfred texted his fellow football player and awaited a response, flipping through the neatly written columns of history notes his brother loaned him.

/

There was no real warning. No one really expects anything like this do they? Alfred had been walking to English, the last class of the day, giddy and grinning, blue eyes shining with excitement. Footsteps behind him, but was that really all that unusual? It was a school, after all.

A wave of pain burst through the blonde's chest. His eyes went wide, blood dripping down his chin from his lips. He could feel his shirt dampening, a sticky, uncomfortable feeling, but it was barely noticeable over the agony shooting through him.

He gave a gurgled cry before falling forward, his skull bashing against the tiled floor, blood spilling out around him. Muffled voices were foggily speaking over him, shouting, crying. He recognized the voices, he knew them, but he couldn't place them. He knew the words being said, but the meanings were lost on him.

Alfred allowed his eyes to close, despite the female screaming for him to keep them open. They were just so heavy and he was so…tired. He smiled, and tried to whisper something to the effect of "It's alright," to comfort the frantic girl, but all that managed to leave his throat was a soft moan.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was hot on his face, and long grass tickled his toes and legs. The blonde haired child smiled brightly, running about and giggling, as children do. He stopped abruptly when he saw a young, brown eyed man observing him curiously. Behind the stranger, a taller, broader man approached, giving off an aura that belonged in a horror movie. The little boy cried out and ran off, despite the shouts of the slighter adult for him to wait.

"Scary," the boy whimpered.

**A/N When I was writing this, I was listening to "Youth of the Nation" by P.O.D. I kind of feel like the first boy in the song could be Alfred, the girl could be Jessica (a made up character to fill the human world, so don't expect a chapter on her) and the second boy could be Mathew. Anyway, this is a rewrite, and I decided the shooting would be a school one instead of a random drive by, and I would talk about Finland and Sweden finding America, instead of France and England, since Finland saw him first. **


	4. Japan

**A/N Possible trigger warning for child abuse. Seriously. I wasn't even abused and I cried writing this.**

He was a small, frail child, little Kiku, living in a household made up of himself, his mother, Mei, and his seemingly unfeeling father, Akinari. Akinari had never wanted a child, but he tolerated the little three-year old who was made up of half of himself, solely because he knew the boy brought his beloved wife great joy. Generally speaking, Kiku was a happy toddler, running around, laughing and playing, and hyperactive tots tended to, which had always brought great irritation to his father. The child's only saving grace was probably the fact that he was a kind young one, who rarely caused any sort of trouble, intentional or otherwise. He had learnt at a very early age to always be on his best behavior, for his own sake.

For a while, his life was alright. It didn't take too long for the little boy to notice that his father did not behave in the way that all of his friends' parents did, but he never once that his Chichi didn't love.

The passing of his mother had been a hard blow on the family, however, and changed Kiku's life forever. He had known his mother was ill for a while, but nobody ever spoke to the child about just how bad her condition was. Never once did the boy think she would actually die from the disease. The little black haired child sat on the floor, his small fingers tapping away at his Gameboy Color that his mother had insisted his father buy for him during Christmas. Still a bright, joyous child, Kiku had recently turned five, and had immediately taken delight in his new classes, where he excelled. He knew not what was happening in the room, his parents' bedroom; all he knew was that his Haha was always in bed because she wasn't feeling well, and the door had been shut for a very long time. Occasionally, he would hear muffled sounds, but not once did the door open, and the small child was becoming increasingly bored. He was also becoming very hungry, and his stomach rumbled noisily, to emphasize the point.

Little Kiku climbed to his feet, his small, blue kimono dropping over his figure with the shift in movement. Normally, he was not a troublesome child, and even when he was punished, it was generally for minor infractions, but at this moment, he was planning on doing something naughty, simply because he had nothing better to do, had watched his friends get away with similar actions, and may have been a bit bitter with his parents for leaving him alone for such a long time, not quite understanding why he could not receive their attention. One of the boys at Kiku's school was always rambling about the mischief he got into, and even if the boy was a little bit older, the Japanese kindergartener figured he could do it too.

The Honda child stood in the kitchen, looking for something to do, or better yet, eat. His brown eyes were drawn to a box of Pocky on the counter, pushed back against the wall to avoid misbehaving little hands, but this boy was clever, and refused to allow something as simple as size stop him. The little boy dragged a wooden chair loudly across the tiled floor, climbing up onto the seat and leaning over the counter to grab at the red box of sweetness.

His chubby fingers had just grazed the smooth, cardboard surface, when a strong hand gripped the back of his clothing and tossed him out of the chair like a blanket. Kiku hit the ground with a small thud, startled more than injured, although his bottom stung with the impact of the tile. Tears welled in his bright brown eyes as he wailed, staring up at the culprit, his father, with betrayal scrawled across his face. He didn't have long to lament his situation, for his parents lifted him in the air a moment later, spitting into his face and shouting.

"Stupid boy! Anata ga okoso mono o miru? Anata wa tadashi nani mo surukoto wa dakimasen!"

Akanari raised a hand and struck the terrified child across the face. The child's crying intensified, causing his father, in a fit of absolute rage, to hurl the child onto the chair he had cleverly used in his attempted assault on the treats. Kiku hit the seat of the chair and then, due to momentum, tipped over the chair and onto the floor, screaming in pain and fear, tears and snot dripping down his face.

"Shut up!" his father screamed.

Kiku scrambled to his feet and rushed to his parents' room, hoping to find comfort from his mother, as he always did. He halted when he got to the room. The woman lay motionless in the bed...He shouldn't wake her.

But Chichi was being scary. The Honda child walked over to his mother and tapped her shoulder lightly, waiting for her gray eyes to open and for her to smile tiredly at him. But…she didn't.

"Haha?" the little boy sniffled, "Please wake up, Tou-san wo kokwaii desu."

She didn't even move. Her chest did not rise and fall as it should have. That was the night his mother died, and his father would never let him forget it. Somehow, in the man's mind, it was the child's fault.

/

The grip on his raven locks would not loosen as his father bashed his skull against the sink, blood dripping down the side of the teenager's head as the silent tears slipped from his eyes. The boy had grown to become a very shy and quiet, yet exceptionally intelligent and creative young man. When asked questions, he often contemplated the best way of answering, so as not to offend anyone or sound stupid, which caused him to delay in conversations, which he held very rarely.

With a sore and raw body, the young man collapsed into a heap on the floor. When he heard the front door slam shut, he allowed the choking sobs to emerge from his throat until that, too, ached.

Kiku would have loved nothing more than to allow himself to drift off to sleep right there on the dirty floor, but he knew if he was still there when his father came back, he would not like the results. Drawing all of his strength, the boy lifted himself and shuffled to his room, where he closed the door and threw himself onto his bed. With tears flowing freely down his cheeks, and his body wracking with heart-wrenching sobs every so often, the high school senior eventually subsided to the exhaustion that gripped his hurting body.

/

When the young man was given the opportunity to live on campus of the University he attended, and ex-communicate his abusive parent, Kiku jumped at the opportunity. He had managed to find a college that was a good distance away from his father's home, but of course, Japan is a rather small country.

After a few years studying, while residing on the school grounds, Kiku moved to a small house in Takayama. Despite his academic excellence, the now twenty-two-year old had his heart set in art, and a passion for manga. He knew that if he could just sell the story he was working on, he could make enough money to move again, maybe go to a city, like Tokyo.

It was late into the night which found Kiku Honda bent over his desk, sketching out the last few pages of the first volume of his manga, which he would call Hetalia. He yawned, tired eyes scanning the page while his pencil moved softly over it, shading in the eyes of the main character, who was smiling brightly, innocently. A person who had never felt the pain and hardships he had. The young man sighed, running a hand over his forehead.

The pounding at his door startled him. It was sudden and loud, and caused Kiku to drop his pencil onto the wooden floor with a soft clatter. With another small sigh, he stood, but was still quite concerned about opening the door. He leaned back away from the peephole, but close enough to see who was out there, hoping whoever it was didn't see the shadow of his feet. What he saw awaiting him at his door stopped the young man's heart. His father, much older than the memory in the younger man's mind portrayed, stood in the darkness of night, with a drunken, toothy grin splattered across his features.

Kiku did not open the door, he did not greet his only living parent, but rather, as quietly as he could in the creaky home he lived in, took a step back, then another, and tip-toed to the other side of the room. The knocking began again, a little rougher than before. The elder did not appear angry, but Kiku knew from experience how bi-polar his father could become when inebriated, and the young man wanted no part in that. He had moved her to be rid of the horrid man whom Kiku was forced to call family.

"Kiku?" the elder's voice sounded just as sturdy as the addressed male had remembered, not weakening with age in the slightest, "I know you are in there. It's your father."

He knew it was his father, that's why he wasn't answering. Many bitter thoughts crossed the young one's mind, and allowing that monster into his abode was definitely out. The pounding became harsher, more furious, and Kiku's childlike fear of his father rose in his chest. He moved quietly to the bathroom and slipped within, locking the door.

It wasn't too long after that he heard the splintering of wood and knew that his front door was out of commission, and his father's drunken temper had likely risen, which was not good for the younger man. Swearing and calls for the son could be detected by the terrified male's ears as his father searched for him, still claiming peaceful intentions, but the note in his voice was all too familiar to Kiku. It was the same clipped tone the younger would hear just before emerging from his hiding place, only to receive the beating his father had promised would not come.

Kiku sat on the tiled floor, pulling his knees up to his chest and ducking his head, covering his head with his hands and arms, as he once did most days in his childhood. The sound of pounding on the bathroom door had tears forming in the youth's eyes and slipping down his cheeks, but Kiku knew that if he gave into his spasm-ing body's desire to sob, he was as good as being on the floor in a bloody, beaten mess. The younger Shintoist prayed to the spirits for aid, but he knew none would come when his father had busted the barrier between the two males. With the door hanging limply from only the top hinge, his father had full access to him.

Akinari growled, but the smile was still plastered across his angry lips, as he approached the younger. He grabbed ahold of his terrified child's collar, spouting insults and curses at the youth while shaking the boy. At each accusation, the young man had only one thing to say:

"Sorry, father."

"Sorry?" the man laughed spitefully, "I'll make you sorry."

He tossed his son to the floor and kicked the boy in the ribs, then stomped on his chest, something he had never done before, but he liked the feeling of the young man writhing under his shoe, and repeated the action several times before smacking Kiku square in the face with the sole of his boot.

A stream of blood flowed from the youth's mouth. He coughed and squirmed, clawing at the ground when his father's hands were then around his neck, strangling him, but also bashing his head against the tile.

Kiku thrashed and choked, even attempting to land a hit on the older man, but it was useless. The grip loosened and released, just as the boy was on the verge of losing consciousness. His father, still kneeling on the tile with a scowl set firm across his mouth, punched the younger in the face and spewed more rhetorical questions before slamming his hand down on his son's chest.

The younger heaved and released a burst of blood that speckled his father's surprised face, as the youth uttered two last words to the man who had tormented him for years.

"Gomen, Chi-chi."

The raven haired young man fell back against the tile with lifeless eyes, as his father, still not sober enough to truly understand the weight of his actions, but not so intoxicated that he was unable to understand the concept that he had just murdered his son, shouted and ran off, not to find the police or a hospital, but to get away from the crime scene.

/

"Onii-chan!" the little Japanese boy shouted excitedly, running up to the brunette elder nation.

"Gege," his caretaker corrected gently, but with less patience than he probably should have.

He picked the small child up into his arms and smiled fondly at the boy who had begun living with him. In response, the little one wrapped his small tiny arms around China and lay his head on the adult's collar bone.


	5. China

Yao was frantically cooking in his parent's kitchen in Beijing, China. The heat was intense and it was tiring, especially when he knew there was homework to be done and his little siblings were enjoying themselves in the next room. It angered the teenager. They were so loud, reminding him that he had never been able to play like that. Since his oldest younger brother, Chen, was born, he had always been in charge of taking care of the younger boy. He had only been eight at that time. Now, six other children sat in the next room laughing, chatting, and playing.

"Anjing!" the teen roared, ceasing all vocals from the younger kids.

The oldest child sighed guiltily and walked into the other room, taking his youngest sister, Ai, in his arms and apologizing softly. Cheng was the oldest, but he was still only ten, and had immediately gone to hide from Yao.

"Cheng, please come out from under the table. I am sorry I shouted."

Said boy poked his head out and stared into the light brown eyes of his older brother. His eyes were sincere and apologetic while their two year old sister rested her head against his collar bone, black curls falling over her face in waves. She looked very different from either boy, having taken after her father more than they did. Maybe that was why their mother seemed to favor her. Cheng finally crawled out from under the table completely and stood next to his brother. Yao smiled and called the rest of the children into the dining room for dinner.

Twins, Bai and Min sat next to each other with the youngest boy (at four years old), Ning, next to Min. Min looked kind of like a seven year old version of Ai, but with her mother's brown eyes rather than her father's and Ai's dark grey orbs. Ning appeared as a younger version of Yao, ponytail and all. Cheng took Ai and sat next to Bai, sitting Ai next to himself. Five year old Wen appeared in the doorframe not long after everyone else, aside from Yao were seated, and sat next to him. The small boy had black hair that fell into his brown eyes neatly with a vacant, expressionless face. He never seemed to show emotion, but Yao knew he simply held them back. He had heard the small child crying softly in the room most of them shared on some nights, usually on their father's birthday. He also used to notice a look of pure pain cross the kid's face every time little Ai asked about the whereabouts of her "Baba". Now, she knew better, though she still didn't understand the concept of death. She didn't want Cheng to yell at her, so she learned to stop asking questions. Bai was the one who seemed to stay cheerful and energetic no matter the hardship he was forced through. His clothes were almost always too big for him, sleeves drooping over his hands so he constantly had to pull them up in order to complete tasks such as eating properly.

Yao looked at all of them with a faint smile on his face, lovingly peering at each of his younger siblings' faces. Little Ai raised her small hand, looking up in Yao's eyes.

"Yao? When is Mama going to be home?"

Eh…I…do not know, Ai. Duibuqi." Yao sighed.

After dinner, the teenager tucked his siblings into their blankets on the floor of the cold room they shared with one another. Cheng and the twins were did not share that room; they roomed with Yao in the living room. It was a system set up by the oldest boy, to try to make the other children feel less cramped.

"Wan'an, Yao." Cheng whispered, snuggling against his older brother.

"Wan'an."

The fire burnt hot against his skin. Sweat poured down his face. The grease covering the floor and his body attracted the flames. Yao shouted for his younger siblings to run away, get out of the house. Get help, something. His skin felt as though it was being melted off of his bone, and maybe it was. Tears stung his eyes from the burning sensation, but also because he knew he had failed his younger siblings. He failed to protect them, and after his death, he would fail to be there for them.

China was walking through the forest, surrounded by the tall standing bamboo stalks, when he came across a small child. Black hair, brown eyes, and an expressionless face. China didn't know why, but he felt connected to the child somehow.

"Ni hao! You must be a new country. I'm sure it was rough on you to have been born in such a small place. My name is China, if there is something you don't know, all you have to do is ask. Now, do you mind telling me your name?" China said in a brotherly tone, as if he had done this all his life.

"Konichiwa, my name is Japan." The little boy responded.

**A/N I decided to make him die in a cooking accident because he is always holding that wok and pot(?) so I felt it was fitting. The best cooking accident I could fathom was a kitchen fire. He has many little siblings because he seems to be obsessed (in my opinion) with being the big brother of the Asian nations, so I thought it would be fitting if maybe he had a lot of siblings in his past life. I'll admit that I don't know a ton about life in modern China, so anything is drastically incorrect, I apologize. Also, with the Chinese, I Google translated "Wan'an" so that is the main thing I am concerned about. I am not very good at Chinese and do not know a lot, so if anything else is wrong, don't blame Google, it's my bad. Once again, I tried to use Google Translate as little as possible.**

**Also, with the little siblings, a couple of them were based on some of his younger siblings in Hetalia, but they are not the incarnations of his human siblings. For example, Wen was based on Japan and Bai was based on S. Korea. **

**For most of them, I am trying to make them die around the age I believe they appear in Hetalia, but seeing as his age is listed as 4000, I figured it was easier to make him a teenager in this even though I know he looks like an adult in Hetalia. **


	6. Canada

"Hey, are you new here?" A boy wearing a baggy, black band t-shirt and jeans that revealed a great deal of his "I love Rock and Roll" boxer shorts ran in front of Mathew, who instinctively put his books up, slightly hiding his face.

"No, I've been going here since Freshman year." Matt sighed.

"Oh yeah! You're the brother of Al, right? Man, he's great, ain't he?"

"Uh…yeah?" the dirty blonde haired boy laughed forcibly, "Yeah, he's a good brother."

"You're his younger bro, right?"

"No, no. W-we're twins."

"Twins? You mean you're nineteen too? Man, what is with you guys and failing?"

"I-I didn't fail. We had to start school late because of our birthday. I'm actually very good at my classes."

"Oh, okay. Well, see ya 'round…I guess." The other boy dropped the conversation lamely.

Mathew sighed. "Right, bye."

It was like this all the time. Most of the students here didn't remember him, because he wasn't all that important. He never joined any clubs, was quiet, didn't answer questions in class, wasn't a part of any sports, and wasn't very social. Most times, when someone did recall his name, they immediately engaged him in conversation of his brother, who of course was an important player on the football team and very social and friendly.

"At least they aren't mistaking me for him." Matt sighed.

That was actually the main reason he kept his hair longer. Having the same blue eyes and blonde hair (when they were younger anyway; now Alfred's hair had turned more brown) in the same style, everyone was constantly mistaking them for one another, including their parents. Matt had gotten tired of constantly hearing "Al, I thought I told you to pick up your toys," and hearing Alfred addressed as him, "Mattie, congratulations on getting this A on a test", so the boy asked his parents to allow him to change his hairstyle at the age of eleven. Now, eight years later, the same concept was in place, even though he didn't really didn't need it anymore, not now that Al's hair color had darkened.

The depression hit hard when he learned of his brother's death. He had become concerned when he woke up the next morning, and his irresponsible brother still hadn't returned home, but it never crossed is mind that his twin would be killed. Rather, he had figured the other boy had stayed the night at a friend's house and forgotten to call, or maybe had even managed to get his hands on some alcohol and got wasted or something. He would have preferred that over the truth. Al's body was found with a bullet wound in his chest at the side of a back road, but the police hadn't the foggiest idea why. It was even worse with the constant reminder at school. Kids constantly walked up to him with condolences and teachers talking about how great he was.

_If it were me, they wouldn't have even noticed. _Mathew thought glumly, tears pricking his eyes. _It should have been me. He was amazing, and he was going to get into college, no doubt about it. I'm still not sure. I haven't been accepted anywhere. And it's not like I'm Mr. Popular._

Mathew sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning as he listened to the dull, droning voice of his teacher, automatically taking notes by force of habit, even if he wasn't actually retaining any of the information.

If he heard someone mention how amazing his brother was one more time, he swore he was going to punch them. He had become very passive aggressive since the demise of his twin. His calm, collected, sweet demeanor morphed into that of a bratty, moody teen, constantly shouting at others and getting into a couple of fist fights. The pacifist that his few close friends had grown close to, became an angry bully with hatred for the world clutching his heart.

Tears streamed down the boy's cheeks this particular afternoon, his violet contacts blurred with the water that filled them. The gun was clutched tightly in his hand, he brought it up so that the front was pressed against the side of his head, and his finger squeezed the trigger. The bullet burst through his skull and planted itself into the young man's brain, killing him almost instantly with a sudden shot of pain.

A violet eyed child clutched tightly to his stuffed polar bear in the wilderness of Canada, running around freely with his brother.

"America!" he giggled as they played tag, "That's no fair, hiding in a tree. You know I can't climb it well."

The other boy, America, pouted slightly, but it was replaced with a wide grin as he stepped down from the plant, only to get patted on the back by his twin, who shouted out, "Tag! You're it!"

"No fair Canadia!" he shouted moodily.

"I'm Canada." The bear clutching boy sighed.

**A/N I wanted this to differ from "Forgotten" and also wanted to show his passive-aggressive attitude. I still felt like he would die from suicide though, so I decided to have him shoot himself. I justified these means (because I honestly couldn't figure out how he would kill himself) with why I don't believe he is ever seen holding a gun. Maybe he does, I don't remember a time though. I wanted to fit his bear somewhere in his teenage life, but honestly just couldn't manage because it was weird just randomly mentioning an old stuffed animal or something. It was so random. Fun fact: Originally I was going to have him jump out the window…but it didn't make sense so I had him use a gun.**

**I really like the scene at the end when their reborn; I may have to expand on that in a separate story, or even in a further chapter of this story. I don't know. I guess, tell me what you want. After all, a writer is nothing without her (or his) readers.**


	7. Russia

_Russia sniffled as his head hit the pavement hard. The other kids around him laughed at his pain._

That was then. This was now, and the days seemed promising. The young Russian smiled at the sunshine warming his face on the cold winter evening. He tugged his long coat around him tighter as he and his sister trudged through the snow frosted streets to their older sister's house.

"Ivan, are you sure we are going de right way, brother? I don't remember her house being so far away." Natalia spoke up in her rarely used but forceful voice.

"Da, sestra. You do not visit Yaketerina as often as I do. She has moved since den." Ivan confirmed.

"I suppose you are right, brother. I have not seen her in a long time." Natalia agreed.

The pair stopped when they came to the blue painted door of their sister's farm, and Ivan lifted his gloved hand to knock when he heard violent shouting from within. The door opened a moment later and out came their older sister, Yaketerina, furiously rubbing at tears which stung her eyes.

"Big sister, what is wrong?" Ivan asked, concerned.

"Hm? Oh, brother. I-I didn't know you were to be coming today." She sniffed, forcing a false smile upon her face, but being a very poor actress, it didn't fool her siblings one bit. "Oh, Natalia. I have not seen you in ages, my dear little sister. Come, let us take a walk and catch up."

The two younger people nodded numbly, following suite of their sister who was already walking at a fast pace down the sidewalk. Ivan was the first to catch up to her, having to steady her multiple times to stop her from slipping on ice.

"Sestra, I am glad that we came to visit you, but you must not hurry so, you will slip and harm yourself. Why were you crying just then?"

"Huh? Oh, it is nothing for you or Natalia to be concerned with, Ivan. It is just dat…nothing. It is fine. Now, enough about me. What have you two been up to?"

"I have been the same as when you last visited me, sister." Natalia answered softly.

"Da, me too."

"Well, dat is gracious news seeing as you two were doing quite well de last times I have seen you both. How are Mama and Papa?"

"Still old and senile." Natalia cracked a smile. Their parents were not truly senile, but sometimes it seemed that way with them. In all honesty, Yaketerina was the closest to them. The two younger siblings had always been closer to their older sister, than the mother who bore them or the father who was constantly working in the fields. Yaketerina was always the one who was there for them.

"Well, I do believe I should head back now. You two go on home, Ivan, Natalia…"

"But…we just arrived-" Ivan began to protest, but ceased when the older woman turned on her heel and returned to her home.

"I am worried about her." Natalia said softly.

"I am as well, sestra. But let us go home as well."

Natalia nodded and followed her brother to his home where his journey ended, then proceeding to walk the extra block to her own house.

Ivan had never liked that boy. His short cropped blonde hair and malicious brown eyes. He was always the leader of the children who would pick on him. Concern was turning into panic as he drew out of slumber the next morning. He had an awful feeling.

Apparently, Natalia had also. The moment Ivan had opened his door to rush out into the cold, winter air, he nearly toppled over the small frame of his younger sibling.

"Natalia, what are you doing here? I was just going to-"

"I want to visit big sister again. But I did not want to go alone. Her boyfriend…he creeps me out. May you come with me Ivan?"

Ivan sighed, but nodded. He had not planned to have her accompany him, but it seemed he had little choice. They strolled together at a quick but not necessarily rushed pace. Both knew their paranoia was likely just that; paranoia. But still, it burned in their minds and neither would be satisfied until they saw that all was well.

When they arrived at Yaketerina's home, Ivan was about to knock, when the pair heard disconcerting sounds from within.

"Big sister, might we come in?"

"Go away Russian boy," the Ukrainian voice of the woman's boyfriend huffed from within.

Natalia and Ivan shared horrified looks and the male opened the door, which was not locked, thankfully. When he stepped in, the first thing he noticed was the red liquid which tainted his boots. His heart leapt into his throat. What was that? It couldn't be-

Natalia shrieked, alerting both her brother and the creep who was dating her sister. The contorted body of her older sister lay at the bottom of the stairs with a pitchfork in her gut, blood spurting from the wound in her abdomen and discoloring her skin and hair. Ivan didn't know whether to weep or growl, but either way his burning eyes tore from the mangled mess of corpse and to the presumed culprit.

"Ya budu chertovski ubit' vas!" he screamed, tears pouring down his cheeks.

The older man grabbed the pipe he had had in his hands just a moment prior (as he was fixing the sink at the time) and swung it at the younger male. It caught his head and crashed through his skull, but it wasn't an instant death.

The last things Ivan heard were the terrified cries of his sister, and the man who had bullied him all his life speaking, "Nemaye trokhy rosiys'kyy Khlopchyk, ya ne vb'yu tebe."

"Nyet," Ivan whispered hoarsely; his last words.

"Ukraine, big sister!" Russia cried as he approached his sister with an arrow sticking out of his head.

Even in this life, he was bullied by the other children. Thankfully though, he would not remember that.

But Belarus did, as she created a pair of snow breasts in the snow whilst her older sister attempted in vain to comfort her older brother.

**A/N First off, I forgot in some of the chapters to translate the words, but once again, I didn't use Google translate or anything and my Russian and Ukrainian are definitely more than a little rusty, so if anyone from those countries or who speaks the language notices a mistake in grammar, wording, or spelling, please let me know, and I apologize. Anyway, 'sestra' is sister. What Ivan says when he is confronting the man should be something along the lines of "I will fucking kill you" please pardon my coarse language, and the Ukranian man should say something like "No, little Russian boy, I will kill you" and "Nyet" (not sure if I spelled that correctly) is obviously "no" in Russian.**

**Also, I really hope the last sentence made you contemplate and laugh at the same time, because that is what it did to me.**


	8. Austria

A young man sat at his piano, gently caressing the yellowed keys with his soft fingers while a small child looked on; his son. Luca was the child's name, and his father, Roderich, loved him dearly. A few years prior, his mother had passed away from terminal cancer in the lungs, and Roderich was "making up" for this in the boy's life by being incredibly lenient with his child. Rarely did he shout, and it was even rarer for the man to play the disciplinarian and actually punish the kid. With few rules to abide by, and miniscule consequences when he broke one of the few rules, Luca became sweet natured, but spoilt, constantly pushing the buttons of his father, and also his school teachers. But right now, listening to his parent's music, he was calmly grinning, allowing the notes to "embrace him in a dance" as his father had once said.

"Vati, can I play now?" the little boy asked.

Roderich glanced at his son uneasily, then back at his beloved piano. The boy was ten, so it should be okay to let him play it, but if the child was clumsy or careless enough to damage the instrument…well, it was irreplaceable in Roderich's opinion. The instrument was aged, which created a particular sound that held beauty beyond compare, and it wasn't cheap to replace the musical tool.

"Um, not right now, kind. Vait until you are older."

Luca looked down slightly in dismay, "Ja, Vati. Okay."

Roderich smiled and ran is fingers through his son's brown curls. The boy looked so much like him, but he had those eyes. His mother's brown doe eyes that could make the coldest heart melt. Beautiful eyes, and, at the moment, saddened eyes.

"Vati loves his stupid piano more than he loves me," Luca sighed later, curled up on his bed in his room.

The boy sniffled, anger in his eyes. Somewhere in his mind, he knew this statement wasn't true, and that his father would gladly smash his piano to pieces for his son, but the boy was caught up in his pity party and refused to see this. Disgruntled and feeling particularly bratty, Luca stood, and stormed out of the house, not escaping his father's notice.

"Luca? Luca!" Roderich stood, and ran out of the house, where the boy was running down the slope of their yard that lead to the road, no doubt intending to complain to his friend Tobias, across the street.

"Luca! Come back here now!" Roderich called, "Come back or you are in a lot of trouble!"

Luca snorted, and continued to speed down the hill, momentum pushing him along and gravity tugging on his hand, encouraging the young boy to continue forward. He heard the truck before he saw it, but had no time to stop, for when he attempted to halt in his tracks, he tripped over his own sneakered feet and skidded out into the road.

Roderich, despite knowing his pursuit was now futile, leapt out into the road (the vehicle now having passed, without so much as stopping) and grabbed hold of his blood-soaked son. The boy's head was cracked clean open, his brain fluid and tissue splattered behind him, and other wounds from the pavement covered his body, especially his face, to the point that he was nearly unrecognizable. Tears didn't sleep from the musician's eyes, they rained down like waterfalls, crashing down to the asphalt as he gripped the deceased boy.

It was his fault. He was too lenient on the child, he was too caught up in his symphonies to acknowledge the fact that his son felt neglected. Roderich cried out as he sat at his piano bench, aggressively banging at the keys in an _almost _rhythm. When did Luca begin to feel that way? Roderich had tried to pay attention to him, all the time. He showered him with affections and toys and attention. Was it because he wouldn't allow the boy to play the piano?

Roderich slammed his fist down on the keys hard enough to loosen some of the yellowed pieces and knock others from their spaces. First his wife, then his son; he was a failure as a husband and a failure as a father. There was nothing left for him, not even his music. The mad musician banged on the piano once more, and again, and another time. It felt good. It felt amazing, actually. He kicked at the piano with his booted foot, and again. He punched the smooth, yet chipped, wood, ignoring the blood painting his knuckles. The man opened up the lid of the instrument, revealing the complex interior and smashing down on the delicate mechanics held within. The strings bit his wrist and hand as he did so. Wait, the strings.

Tears blurred his vision, but he still knew what he was doing when he pulled one of the strings hard enough for it to snap and come off in his hands. He wrapped it around his soft throat and pulled as hard as he could, but found it impossible to end his own life in this way. He snatched a few more of the strings, twisting them in a rope type of structure and wrapping it around a beam near the ceiling, standing on a stool and kicking off.

His neck didn't snap like it should have. Instead, the poor man hung there, thrashing wildly as his oxygen supply very slowly ran out. His lungs burned as he kicked, and punched, and flailed, and lurched, before finally losing energy and hanging limp until his life force depleted.

"Mr. Austria?" a small voice startled the musical country from the melody he was composing.

"Ja, vhat is it, Italy?"

The chibi nation looked up cautiously, afraid to anger the man. Austria was a strict disciplinarian, big on rules and restrictions, but he was kind.

"May I watch-a you play?" the little boy, mistaken as a little girl, questioned politely.

"Ja."

Italy smiled widely and climbed up on the seat next to his caretaker, smoothing out his dress over his legs. After a while, Italy peeked up at Austria's face again, biting his small lip.

"Mm…Mr. Austria?"

"Vhat is it now?" Austria ceased his playing and turned his full attention on the toddler.

"Um, may I-a play?"

"Nei-…ja, Italia. Ja, you may try."

Italy gave a small cry of, "Yay!" and leaned over to reach the keys, but found it very difficult. Austria smiled slightly and lifted the boy, placing him on his lap so he could better touch the fine instrument and create sound. Amazingly, the boy was not terrible at drawing music from the old, musical tool, but Austria really shouldn't have been surprised, considering the boy was already known to be artistically gifted.

"I could teach you to play piano, Italy. If you vanted."

Italy nodded, "Si, si! Grazi, Mr. Austria!"

That was the first time Italy listened to Mr. Austria play, which would be followed by many more, and it was the first time Italy played the piano. But it wouldn't be the last.

**A/N Alright, so it was very difficult for me to figure out how he should die. All I knew was that he should have a child and be very lenient with the kid, which gets the child killed. This is why he is very strict in his next life, because even though he doesn't remember his past life, somewhere in his subconscious he is convinced that he needs to be very restrictive and authoritative. Originally, I was going to go with the "Alice Human Sacrifice" second Alice scenario, where he goes mad and shoots himself (although I go back and forth on whether I believe he shot himself or was shot by someone else) but since I have already had a few of the characters be shot (either by themselves or by someone else) I wanted to go with something else. For some reason I could see Austria (ahem, excuse me, **_**Roderich **_**hanging himself, so I went with that, but I wanted an element of his piano involved with his death, so he hanged himself with the piano strings. Fun fact: I briefly considered having Austria be crushed by the piano (like maybe in his 'temper tantrum' he tips the thing over and it falls on him or something) but A) that is really unlikely, and B) it seemed too cartoonish in my opinion, like a falling anvil in Animaniacs (and yes that show is before my time so I'm not sure if you'll get the reference I'm making). Anyway, I'm done rambling.**


	9. England

"_Mummy! Mummy!" a little blonde haired boy ran into the kitchen, clutching onto his mother's violet colored dress._

"_Oh, what is it Arthur?"_

"_Flying Mint Bunny stole my biscuit and won' give it back. Can I have another?"_

At first she thought it was simply imaginary friends; most boys his age had them. But then he reached the age of twelve, and still had the fabrications in a delusional fantasy or realism, she became increasingly concerned. At the age of seventeen, the boy was diagnosed.

Schizophrenia ailed the child, it was decided. His mother and father both took the answer with acceptance, but his oldest brother took it as another excuse to bully the kid.

It was Halloween and Arthur Kirkland was dressed up as a pirate, ready to go to the party his friend had sat up, even if it seemed a little childish for a man in his twenties to be celebrating Halloween. A thick, red coat hung over him, a black eye patch was placed over his right eye and in his hands he held an antique sword he "borrowed" from his father, who was a collector. His father had no idea.

"Artie!" a high pitched voice called out to him.

Arthur didn't need to look beside him to know it was. He growled angrily, "Go away Mint. Leave me alone."

"But Artie, I just want to play with you!"

"No! You're not real!"

A chuckle brought him out of his thoughts and he looked into the blazing green eyes of his brother.

"Heh, little Artie talkin' to his imaginary friends again?"

"Go away Alistair." The boy muttered.

"Aw, what's wrong little Artie? Wanna have some alone time with your winged rabbit?"

"Shut up!"

"**Kill him."**

"Hm?" Arthur turned to the green colored mammal floating to his left. Something was wrong. The normally bright, benevolent eyes of the rabbit were tainted red with malice.

"**Kill him! He just wants to separate us! Can't you see? He's been mean to you ever since you were little. Kill! HIM!"**

Before Arthur could contemplate his actions, he thrust the sword into the side of his brother, causing the red head to shout and fall to the pavement with a thud.

"**Now…kill yourself!"**

"Wha-?"

"**Kill yourself! And we'll be together forever."**

Arthur's worried parents called the police when they called him a few days post Halloween, and he never picked up. They then tried to call their oldest son, Alistair, but couldn't get a hold of him either. Police would find both boys not too long later in the woods. The twenty five year old blonde smiling sadly, slumped against a tree, and the thirty year old red head mangled on the ground, his face contorted in an expression of shocked pain. They proposed that the younger male had a fit of schizophrenia and killed his sibling and then himself. They never would have guessed that the whole thing was set up by a flying, green bunny.

**A/N Originally he was going to be burnt as a witch in old England, because I didn't want him to be tripping on LSD like most people write (mainly because I'm really not sure how to write that accurately) but decided against it…because I forgot my original plan until I was halfway through this one. I may write my original idea later, because one of the things I wanted to mention was his involvement in the church. Either way, I think you all can tell why I made him schizophrenic, even if it may seem cliché. You'd be surprised how little the quantity of stories I've seen proposing this theory really is, namely, none. All the stories I've read say he's high or something.**


	10. France

He was notorious for "falling in lust", but this time, it wasn't lust. It was love. He loved this woman before him with the cropped blonde hair and stunning, beautiful eyes. Her name was Lisa. He and Lisa had been friends for a while now, but he never had the guts to ask her out, and he would come to regret that, namely when she would introduce a handsome young man from her school as her boyfriend. He congratulated them sadly with a sorrowful heart.

Maybe it wouldn't have happened if not for his reputation. Lisa and he had been friends since High School, but even back then, he knew she wouldn't go out with him. She was a strong and intelligent young woman along with her stunning appearance; she was too wise to fall for the tricks of a player, even her best friend. On the other hand, however, Lisa had wanted to ask her Francis on a date, but, she was raised by the American traditions of her homeland of waiting for the boy to make the first move. Besides, as previously stated, she was far too clever to fall to the charm of a playboy, and was patiently waiting for the day her pal changed. Apparently she was not wise enough, however, to avoid a complete and utter asshole, considering that is what she was dating. It wasn't until they were about three weeks into the relationship that she noticed this about him.

He was arrogant, rude, and constantly ordering her around; she couldn't figure out if it was because he was French, or because he was a jerk. Was that considered alright here? Because she had been surrounded by the country since tenth grade, and now in college, it seemed it would be awfully late to be just noticing that now. She didn't tell Francis about his egotistical, narcissistic, intolerable other persona, yet she didn't know why. Was it a pride thing? It certainly wasn't for fear of the other man beaten up her boyfriend; Francis talked big and acted tough, but when it came to fist fights, he wasn't your man to go; he'd much prefer run away and talk his way out of things.

This night was particularly bad. She was used to the verbal abuse, biting at her like sharp lances into her skin, tearing at her soul, but he had never become physically violent; that's the main reason she still tolerated him. This night was different. This night, he was aggressive. It began with a slap, stinging across her cheek, reddening the flesh so it appeared as though she was blushing on one side of her face. She looked tearfully up at the clearly inebriated man who then grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake, spitting words like venom that she didn't hear, before letting go and allowing her to topple down the stairs, cracking her skull open and ending her life.

Francis stared down at the grave stone, polished and cleaned and beautiful, just like she had been. A single tear slipped from his left eye as his fist clenched around the bundle of roses he was holding; they had always been her favorite. In neat, black, French script, her name was engraved in the centre of the morbid stone:

**Lisa Joan Arcum**

Lisa Joan Arcum. His beloved; his love; his best friend. She was buried in America, which was where he was at the moment, surrounded by Nevada: her hometown.

He knew who did it; who killed his precious Lisa. And he would get his revenge for her. It was midnight when he stomped up to the house Lisa and her 'boyfriend' had been living in. That asshole had the nerve to still occupy the house where he had killed her. A dagger was clutched tightly in Francis' hand as he opened the door (he still had the key Lisa had given to him) and marched up the stairs as loudly as he could, making a show of it. He slammed open the door to the guy's room and pounced on the other man, stabbing him straight through the heart before the dude even had time to comprehend what was happening.

"Lisa, I'll come back to you. I'll see you in Heaven. Je suis desole." He plunged the dagger into his own chest, slowly feeling the life and blood alike drain from him. He wouldn't see her in Heaven, but he would see her again.

She was a tourist with blonde hair and bright eyes. She was his Joan of Arc, France knew that. But he would never remember a girl named Lisa Arcum whom he had loved.

**A/N Finally I got this one done! It took me a few days, but part of that is because of AP classes. Pardon my 'French' (swearword), although I do believe that is English. Sorry, I'll stop being a smart Alec. Also, I feel like this story seemed to centre more on Lisa "Joan of Arc" than Francis. Anyway, I wanted a "Romeo and Juliet" type of scenario for this one because of his obsession with love in the anime. Also, originally he was actually going to be from the 1400s and actually fight alongside Jeanne d'Arc (Joan of Arc) whom he is in love with, but then she dies and we go right back to Shakespearean tragedies. Then I realized I would not write a scenario for that time frame in France very well and put it into modern times instead. Don't blame me, blame the American education system, I was in AP World History last year I didn't learn crap. Either I am incredibly smart or everyone around me are morons. Take your pick. Also, props if you know why I chose the name Lisa. Oh and also, I'm sure I am not the first to come up with this, but I tend to say that people who are "in love" with very attractive people all the time (so basically a player in denial) I say they tend to "fall in lust" so that's what I meant by that.**

**Also, I forgot to add the last part of England's chapter when he is in the Hetalia world, so I'll put that down here.**

"**Hi, Flying Mint Bunny," a blonde haired boy dressed in a green cloak greeted.**

"**Ohonhonhon, what are you doing Britain; talking to your imaginary friends again?" France teased, walking up behind the younger boy.**

"**Shut up, git! At least I don't look like a girl!"**

**The smile dropped from France's face slightly, but either way he sat next to the British nation, ruffling the already messy hair upon the child's head.**

"**Hey, stop that! You're messing up my hair." Britain whines, smacking France's hand away lightly.**

"**What is zhere to mess up?"**

"**Git." Britain mumbled while France laughed.**

**I was kind of trying to compare Big Brother France in Hetalia to Arthur's brother in the 'real' world. They both tease the boy, but France was more humored and brotherly (at least in my fluffy mind) whilst his first life's brother was simply mean.**


	11. Belarus

She had been in the forest, hiding out, when they found her. It hadn't started out this way, but she knew that her actions over the course of the last few weeks were enough to send her straight to Hell.

_A blood curdling screech sounded, grating her ears. Was the cry her own, or did it belong to someone else. No, it had to be hers; who else would be screaming? Her brother was dead, the thought still clenched tightly onto her heart, and Natalie stared numbly at his contorted corpse. Also lifeless, lay her elder sister. The cackling man responsible for their ascents to Heaven, because Natalie knew that there was no other place her beloved siblings could go, certainly wasn't howling horrifically. _

"_Come here little girl," the man hissed predatorily, "come join your big brother and sister."_

_The nineteen year old girl stood swiftly, her body jolting in fearful adrenaline, her torn and blood stained dress flowing out around her like an ocean wave with the sudden movement. She shot her hand out next to her and grabbed the closest thing her fingers could curl around, a small knife, which she thrust into the man who was quickly approaching her. He tensed and choked in shock, and grunted in pain when she removed the weapon from his soft flesh, only to dig it deeper and higher into his body. _

_When the surprise subsided, pure rage engulfed the man and he burst forward, hands ready to cut into the soft flesh of her neck, cutting off her oxygen, but before he was given the chance to carry out her death, Natalie plunged the knife into his throat, almost enjoying the soft gurgling sound that arose from within him and the spew of crimson liquid that dripped to the floor and caked her hands. _

The men restrained her, roughly pulling her to the town square, reciting her crimes as they kept her still and took aim.

_It hadn't been fun at first. She had run from the house with the fear that she would be caught and blamed for the deaths of her beloved brother and sister. The girl had hidden away in the woods. But she would become hungry. People would see her and recognize her. She didn't have a choice. It wasn't her fault; she had to. It became habit, then hobby. _

_The power, it was exhilarating. Intoxicating. Their lives were in her hands. It was her decision whether they lived or…she plunged the knife down into the heart of the writhing man beneath her…died. Blood bathed her, filled her, made her feel alive. It made the hurt of her brother's passing go away temporarily. Oh…and her sister, too. _

_But her brother. He would have loved this, she was sure. Her brother would have wanted her to be happy. Ivan, smiling at her kindly, warmly, as he always had. The vision of it would never fade._

_She saw him now, in the crowd, smiling, and offering his gloved hand, even though it was summer. Natalie could almost hear his kind voice._

"_Come with us, Natalie. Come, little sister."_

A twisted grin spread across her lips, as she laughed maniacally and interrupted the people, reminding her of her dark deeds.

"Do it," she demanded, "Do it! Kill me!"

_Her brother, he smiled proudly at the girl about to meet her end. She could see him. She could-_

**BANG!**

Natalie's breath hitched as the bullets, two of them, embedded themselves into her flesh. The pain was unbearable, shooting through her like an all-encompassing flame. Her body tensed, then relaxed, and she dropped as far as she could, gravity's grip on her like a vice. If she had not been restrained, the girl would have fallen to the ground in a heap of death. As her eyes closed, through her blurred and darkened vision, she saw her older brother, Ivan, smiling down at her. She was happy.

/

He had been hurt again, her older brother. Tears running down his childish cheeks, an arrow sticking out of the top of his head. It was a good thing that they were countries, far more durable than most people, otherwise, he probably would have been in critical condition, if not dead.

The youngest child scowled to herself, fluffing up the snow in the heaps she was making. Despite being the physical equivalent of a toddler, or perhaps just a bit older, the little one's mind was already filled with vengeful thoughts. Maybe it wouldn't have been, if she didn't have the distinct feeling of bliss every time she thought about blood.

**A/N So, I did some research, and it seems that Russia has never been fond of the death penalty, and throughout history, it has often been suspended except for specific crimes. I figure being a serial killer would be one of those crimes, but I also know that shooting has been a prevalent way to kill someone in Russia, so, this takes place whenever it is plausible to take place. I'm so sorry I couldn't be more specific, but I researched, and just couldn't find a lot of information in the books I found.**


	12. Ukraine

He was violent; she knew this. But she loved him, and that was what mattered right. She labored in the fields of her farm; wasn't that the man's job? No matter, Yekaterina liked being a 'strong, independent' type, even if she knew she wasn't. It was nice that people saw her that way though, and not some sex figure do to her, erm, voluptuous in appearance, particularly in the attribute attached to her chest. She had often been teased, oddly enough, for being a bit top heavy even at the ripe age of thirteen. It was nice to be seen as a person rather than an object of sensual pleasure, and she felt she gained that with her fiancée. But he was violent.

She had just had a beer bottle hurled at her when she heard a knocking at the door. Thankfully, the glass container had missed her and shattered on impact of the wall behind her, but the mere action startled and frightened the woman, enough to make tears run down her face even. She wiped them away and feigned a smile unconvincingly as she answered the door, surprised to see her younger siblings there appearing concerned. Ivan and Natalia. She had basically raised the pair herself, and now they were both adults, even if Natalia was just barely an adult and often still looked upon as a child by the community, who had known her since she was very little. She got through the little exchange with them and returned home to an angry boyfriend. He beat her that night, but they lived far enough away from everyone else that no one was there to hear his yelling and her cries and the sound of flesh forcefully hitting flesh. No one was there to save her. But whom did she need saving from? She loved him.

The major incident occurred the night after, when she had accidentally spilled his stew whilst he was intoxicated with his beloved beer.

"Vy durna suka!" he spat, slapping her across the face hard enough to throw her to the floor.

The Ukrainian man sat on top of her and wrapped his hands around his wife-to-be's throat, throttling the kind woman to death, until her life slipped away completely and she lay there, limp. Still not sober enough to care, he proceeded to fix the sink, when he heard a knock at the door, and the Russian boy's voice.

She would always be there for her little brother and sister, since no one else would be. Ukraine stroked Russia's hair back while he slept peacefully after another long day of being picked on by those other children.

"I am sorry brother, but I promise you, things will become better."

**A/N Yeah, I apologize for the shortness of it; I was getting tired with this 'arc'. But on the bright side, I am sick (yep, totally bright, I say sarcastically) so my parents have allowed me to stay home from school today and possibly tomorrow. Hopefully I do not regurgitate all over my laptop though.**


	13. Egypt

He had never known the love of a mother, the soft kisses upon his hairline, the soothing heartbeat against her breast, the soft whispers of comfort after a nightmare. On Mother's Day, the other children would always scribble crude drawings of their maternal caretakers with excited giggles and speeches about how proud or happy their parents would be and young Guputa would quietly sit in the back of the class, half paying attention to the teacher's reprimand about participating in class. One year, when he was fifteen in High School, his art teacher had scolded him about not doing the Mother's Day project and asked him how his Mom would feel about not receiving anything. The boy bit his lip, fire blazing behind his eyes, before standing up, shouting, "I don't know because I never knew her!" and running out of the classroom.

From the start of his memory, his father had been distant. Maybe the man was kind and gentle before the tragic loss of his beloved, but Guputa had never encountered that mysterious man in his life, or at least, not that he recalled. And as stereotype dictates, his father blamed him for the death of his mother, who had lost consciousness and soon after met her end through childbirth, having lost too much blood in the process. In his parent's condemning green eyes, he had been a murderer before he was even born.

It was natural for a child with such an upbringing to be anti-social. One would have to possess very little intellect to presume he would be allowed to play with friends outside of school hours, not that he had an interest. Instead of friendship, Guputa turned to books about his heritage in Egypt, adoring the myths and legends and culture profusely. The boy became very educated in many subjects, but mathematics was definitely his strong suit and history followed closely behind. As he grew, his mental capacity grew to great lengths, but his sociality only continued to lessen. The more age he gained the less he spoke or interacted with others.

It was on such a day that the sun had been shining cheerfully and the sky was clear that the youth of only nineteen years, still "leeching off of" his father, met the fate of death he was born into with the misfortune which comes with having a psychotic, grieving father. The boy had finished his classes at the small community college he attended through scholarships, because Heaven knew his father wouldn't lone him the money, when he opened the front door of his house to a seemingly abandoned residence. Pictures had been torn from the wall, broken glass was scattered across the floor, and all the lights were off despite the approach of dusk. No sound emitted save for the soft sway of the wind and a few passing cars outside.

"Father?" he had given up on calling the man "Papa" long ago.

A creak and a pained shout were heard as the young man's body collapsed to the floor with a sound THUD, blood trickling from a small wound in his cranium, barely detectable tangling with the strands of black hair. Heavy breathing and the parent brought the board of wood down upon his child's limp form again and again and again until there was no breath, no movement, and no life from the youth.

It was hot. That was the first thing he noticed. Then he felt the soft sand against his body and looked up into the smiling face of a young woman, who brought him into his arms gently. He had never known the love of a mother before, but he felt that it was a lot like this as she cradled his small, childish form and he rested his head against her lulling heartbeat.


	14. Iceland

The air was dry and cold, almost burning his lungs as the teenager took a breath, but this was not foreign to the boy. Three children trekked through the deep snow, their boots crunching as they journeyed home from the supermarket. Georg, the youngest child, released the hand of his older brother, but continued by the elder's side, as were the instructions of their parents. Vincent clung to Emil's hand for dear life, carefully stepping in the tracks of his brother's, being slightly behind the two, for fear of falling in, despite Emil's constant reassurances. In his other hand, the second youngest held the bags filled with food items, excited for the small treat that his brother had bought for the three of them with a little extra money the teen had acquired from working for their neighbors.

After a moment, Emil stopped suddenly, causing Vincent to almost topple into the frozen water. He looked up at the teenager with curiosity shining in his light blue eyes.

"Where's Georg?" Emil asked softly.

Vincent glanced around, then shook his head to show that he was not aware of the youngest's whereabouts. Emil's breath hitched in his throat, but his facial expression did not change. He turned to Vincent.

"Stay here, Vin. I am going to find Georg," Emil said softly to the younger child.

Vincent nodded; even if he had been tempted to move from the spot he was in, he wouldn't have, for fear of disappearing in the thick snow, being buried alive until he froze to death. This was probably the one time in which Emil would not reassure the boy that that would not happen. If it kept the child still, the teenager could deal with him being a bit fearful.

As Emil wandered, following the footprints which, thankfully, had not been masked by the snow, he began to worry even more. Could the little boy really have wandered off so far without his brother knowing? He had to be okay, right? But what if he wasn't?; what if something had happened to his precious little brother? Emil knew he could not live with that. The teenager walked further, his pace increasing speed, until he saw a small figure up ahead. A breath was exhaled into visible steam as Emil allowed his feet to slow.

The younger boy was sat in the snow, appearing to be sulking, but turned when he heard the crunch of boots in the snow. Georg looked up at his elder sibling and wrapped his small fingers around the hand which was offered to him. Emil did not begin walking back just yet, though he did mentally curse himself for leaving Vincent alone or so long; he had never guessed that Georg could have wandered off this far without the elder noticing.

"You can't be wandering off like that, Gerog," Emil lightly scolded, "You are lucky there wasn't a storm or heavy wind. I would never have found you if I couldn't see the footprints. Do you understand?"

Georg nodded, "Já, stored bróðir minn."

The two siblings began walking back to meet Vincent, who was still standing in the same spot he was left in. As the three entered their home, after the short walk back, the two younger siblings ran to the dining room table where a snack was sure to be placed for the three boys. Emil, unlike his brothers, unraveled the scarf from around his neck, shed his jacket, and untied his boots, setting all winter clothing items next to the door, hanging up the scarf and coat. He shook his head as he followed the small tracks of quickly melting snow to the table with his little brothers. The teenager sat down next to Vincent and took a handful of the black licorice that was sitting in a ceramic bowl in the center of the table. Georg, being the littlest, had to kneel in his chair and stretch as far as he could just to reach for the treat, but Emil would not move the bowl closer to the child until he asked. When he finally did, the elder slid the treats closer to the younger boys and stood, stretching and retreating to his room.

As the day passed, the three boys' mother returned from work, thanking her eldest son for watching his brothers, to which Emil truthfully responded that he enjoyed it. He loved his brothers dearly, even when they drove him slightly insane. When the sky darkened as night fell, Emil was the one to shoo the younger children upstairs to ready themselves for bed, and while his mother finished the chores of the house, he was the one who walked up to their room and tucked both into their beds, reading them an Icelandic fairy tale. When he finished reading, "Skessan á steinnökkvanum", he wished Georg and Vincent a good night and retreated to his own room.

The next morning, Emil took the boys out for a walk, as he tended to do while his mother was readying herself for work. She would dress in her day clothes, prepare a snack for the arrival of the children, and then leave, not to return until near dinner time. During this time, her eldest child almost always took the younger ones out to play.

The snow drifted lightly through the air, and the little ones were playing a game of tag ahead of the teenager while they walked along a path. Emil smiled to himself. As the three were walking, the eldest's foot caught on a stray root and he fell face first into the cold, frozen water. He sat up into a kneeling position, spitting out the snow which had found its way into his mouth, and dusting off his clothes. When he looked back up to find where his brothers were, neither was in sight. Emil launched himself to his feet and glanced around. He could hear giggling, and their footprints were imbedded into the snow. The teen breathed a sigh of relief, bit he vowed to keep a firm hold of both from now on when they went out; he was so tired of having to chase after the two, particularly Georg, and working himself into a panicked frenzy. Still, Emil did not want to waste time. His pace was not quite a run, but it was speedy. As he travelled, the snow and wind became harsher, and his brothers were not answering his calls of their names.

Emil glanced back at the ground to find that the footprints were fading. A chill gripped his heart and his stomach seemed to fill with ice. He began to jog, and finally was running, screaming out the names of the two boys. No, he couldn't have lost them, not out here! He couldn't have failed as an older brother! The boy promised himself he would not return to the house without his siblings, but as the temperature dropped and the light began to disappear, he was greatly tempted to. Still, he trekked further, eyes constantly scanning his surroundings, ears listening closely for any sound of his brothers, and voice running dim with the calls of their names as his body began to chill and his throat burned with the frost of the air.

"Vinnie! Georg!" his voice was growing weak, but he wouldn't give up, "Vincent! Georg! Vin!"

The teenager collapsed, but forced himself to get back up and continue, until he fell into the sot embrace of the snow, with no more strength. Wind blew back his light blonde hair, almost as his mother used to when he was a very small child, before he was a big brother and needed to become responsible, before he was forced to grow up and give away his childhood. This in itself was almost enough for the child to close his blue eyes in peaceful sleep, but he couldn't. He needed to find the younger boys. The first rays of the next day's sun was the last thing he saw, as he shouted the names of his little brothers one last time.

/

"Iceland!"

The silver haired child turned, violet eyes glancing upward to meet his older brother's. Norway smiled fondly and lifted the little boy into his arms. Iceland giggled and hugged his brother. Approaching them was Denmark, who was exclaiming about something or other, but the little boy wasn't paying much attention.

"Big brother, can I play in the snow?"

Norway nodded and set the child on the ground. Iceland proceeded to run off and jump around, building a snowman or occasionally tossing a snowball at one of his elder brothers.

**A/N Vincent and Georg represent Vinland and the Original Settlers of Greenland, and yes, I did get that from SaTW. Anyway, originally Iceland was going to be the eldest of the family, then I was going to add Norway since they are technically biologically related in the anime, but I didn't know what to do with him (originally he was just going to be visiting the family because he's older and moved out, but I wasn't sure if that would end up tying in with his chapter, so I left it out), which is why I never mentioned Iceland being the oldest of the family, because I'm not sure if he is going to be. Anyway, I think this might actually take place in Iceland, but if anything seems off about it, we'll just say he used to live in Maine when he was human. I am trying to not make all of these occur in the U.S., but I've never been to another country, so I'm scared I'm going to get things wrong and sound ignorant. So, I'm sorry if I seem very America-centric. Anyway, Iceland was forced to grow up at a very young age to help raise his little brothers, and that's part of the reason why he tries to act very grown up and mature, but the other Nordics treat him like a kid, though none of the countries remember their past lives, in case that wasn't clear. **


	15. Sealand

"Help!" he screeched, before plummeting back under the water. When Peter emerged again he gulped in a deep breath, anticipating the salty waves washing over him again, which was exactly what they did.

He had been trying to be a grown up, and grown-ups swam deeper in the water, but the child had not anticipated the undertow, or being separated from his mother and father. Peter had not thought about the harsh grip the waves could have on his body, carelessly tossing him about like a ragdoll and dragging him underneath the water.

His lungs filled with salty liquid as he involuntarily inhaled. When he surfaced again, he was coughing furiously and was unable to take a gulp of oxygen before he was submerged again. He tried to call out, but all that did was cause more water to fill him. His lungs burned with the desire for oxygen, a wish which would not be fulfilled. The English boy thrashed about, waving his arms and kicking his legs, desperately attempting to launch himself up toward the surface...but where was the surface? He was disoriented and his vision was becoming dark with impending death.

Bubbles burst from his mouth as his body lay limp in the ocean and his eyes closed. His lifeless form would never be found.

/

"I want to be a country!" the micro-nation complained to himself. Though his form was that of a twelve year old, and his actions matched his appearance, Sealand was actually much older than that, and felt it was time he was treated with the respect and recognition a country deserved.

He dipped his feet in the water of the sea, swinging his legs back and forth in the salty waves.

**A/N I know it's short, apologies. Anyway, my computer says "Sealand" is not a word. XD**


	16. Canada II

**A/N I was trying so hard to do more of the other characters before doing repeats, but I had ideas for America and Canada that have been simmering in my head for almost a year now, so I figured I'd finally write it out and post it. If any of you have requests, just tell me and I'll try my best to fill it as soon as possible. I want to make sure you all are happy with my work. I might re-write some of the earlier chapters too, add a bit of detail, etc. And I am working on new character chapters as well, like Poland and Latvia.**

His birth had been a quiet one, comparatively. The woman had requested and received an epidural, and her pain had eased about twenty minutes afterward. When the child was fully born, the doctor and nurses had been surprised to find that no sound emitted from the child's mouth. At first, they had presumed him deceased, a still born, until the "dead" child began to squirm about. The first few days of his life were spent being checked over and staying in the hospital to see why he would not cry, and it was soon discovered that his vocal chords had been damaged in the wound, having never fully developed due to the trauma.

Miss Williams named her youngest little boy after his father, Mathieu. Being the youngest of five children had not been too bad for the mute boy, but he was easily forgotten amongst the chaos of four boys and one loud-mouthed girl, until finally when the youngest child was eight years old, his mother was forced to have some of her offspring move in with her brother, who had already been caring for his own son and her second youngest. Mathieu was among these children along with his only sister, who, being sixteen, would likely be moving out soon anyway.

So the little boy was sent with his teenage sister on a plane from Ottawa to Vermont to meet his uncle and sixth sibling. When the two arrived, a young man only two years older than Mathieu ran up to them excitedly, talking to his older sister amiably while a blonde young man stood placidly behind with a soft smile upon his lips. Mathieu was almost startled at how similar to his mother the man appeared. He was broken out of his trance by the next words out of his apparent brother's mouth.

"I thought Uncle Artie said there'd be two of you!"

Mathieu blushed and stepped into view from behind his sister, catching the eye of the older boy.

"Oh, there you are! Why didn't you say anything, little bro?"

"This is Mathieu," Camille said, setting a light hand on her youngest brother's shoulder, "He can't talk."

Alfred looked horrified at this, "Can't talk?! I'm so sorry! That must suck."

"Alfred," the adult warned, "We don't use language like that. Come along, you three, when we get home I'll show you two your rooms and make dinner."

"Alright!" Camille nodded enthusiastically, running to catch up with her uncle.

The adult shook his head slightly, already deciding that this little mute boy would probably gain his favor simply for being quiet. _'Speaking of the mute boy', _Arthur turned his head to see Mathieu trailing behind, so he stopped and held out a hand for the little one to take so that the child would not become lost in the crowd. The Canadian child grabbed the offered appendage and continued walking with the people who would now be his family.

He was shown to a room which was a bit separated from the others, being the only room upstairs. His uncle apologized profusely for the isolation, saying that there were only four downstairs bedrooms and he felt that Camille might need more space, being a teenager, and that he didn't want her to be complaining about it, seeing as she was quite loud. The other option was for Mathieu to share Alfred's room, which both boys immediately refused.

Mathieu walked into his room, glancing around at the plain white bedding, the cleared desk, and the worn dresser. He allowed his bag to drop to the floor, immediately putting the clothes into drawers and the picture of him and his mother on top of the dresser. The only other belonging he had was a stuffed polar bear his mother had bought him when he was a baby.

The little boy sat down on his bed, staring at the ceiling in contemplation as he had been doing for years to pass the time, figuring his uncle would call him down for dinner soon. This, however, never happened, and Mathieu ended up falling asleep with an empty stomach.

In the morning, the youngest family member awoke with hunger gnawing at him. He stood up and walked down the stairs to the kitchen, where Arthur was washing dishes by hand. The man turned around, startled, when he heard footsteps behind him, and his eyes widened when he saw the small boy.

"Mathieu! Aren't you at school?"

Said child looked up curiously and shook his head.

"Yes, well I can see that. Come, get dressed and I'll bring you to the school. You're already enrolled, you know, why didn't you...I never woke you, did I?"

The Canadian child shook his head once more. Arthur urged the boy to dress while he made some toast for breakfast and dropped the little boy off at the elementary school. The man knocked on the door, explained the situation to the teacher, and had Mathieu walk into the classroom.

"Ah, yes, Mathew, right?"

The boy nodded, and walked to the desk in the back where she pointed, as the seating what organized alphabetically. The next few weeks went by without too much hassle or excitement. The second day he was at school, Mathieu received full marks on his work, save for "misspelling" his name, which the boy was unable to correct, and there were a few days where he missed dinner because his uncle forgot that he was even there, but for the most part, there was little incident. Mathew learned to be more responsible for himself, making sure he awoke on time to get to school, to pay attention to when dinner was served, and to raise walk up to the teacher to hand in his work because she always missed his desk and never seemed to see him when he raised his hand, likely because the boy who sat in front of him was much taller.

Each night, when the boy would come home on the bus with his brother and cousin, he would walk up to his room and think. There were only a few times that he was left at school and had to have the office call his uncle.

Uncle Arthur was a kind man, but a bit overwhelmed with four children in the house, three of which were quite loud and hyperactive. Despite his fondness of the youngest, the small child was easily forgotten due to his timid, loner sort of nature and inability to speak, yet the man felt terribly guilty every time the little one slipped his mind.

It was a few months later that Mathew became quite ill with the flu. He awoke one morning to find himself running to the upstairs bathroom and ejecting the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Knowing it was very early, and feeling rather tired still, he returned to bed, moving the trashcan that was in his room to the side of his bed, just in case. For the entirety of that day, Mathew was lethargic and continued to throw up until all he could manage to bring out was sour tasting stomach acid.

All he did was sleep and wake up to regurgitate, until one night, about a week later, he didn't wake up. The child had noticed the ache in his stomach due to lack of food but had felt too weak to get up and remind his caretaker that he existed. Life slowly drained out of him as he gradually became weaker and weaker, even after the flu had passed through his system. It was too late now. He couldn't call for anyone, and they didn't remember that he was even there. All that he felt was hunger as his eyes turned to the picture of his mother and himself. The mute little boy felt tears slip from his eyes, despite his dehydration, as his vision blackened.

Arthur would walk up the stairs to bring the phone to his nephew and open the door a few days later, and the sight which would greet him would horrify him. The pungent odor of vomit and decay made him sick, but more so, the sight of the little Canadian boy, Mathieu Williams, starved to death, made him hate himself forever. A deep longing would settle in the man, the longing for another chance.

/

Canada frowned at his twin, "I'm here too, America," he whimpered.

"Oh yeah, sorry Canadia."

The young boy sighed.

"Who are you?" the polar bear next to him asked.

"I'm Canada," the child moaned, resigned.

**I know Canada and America are twins, but since I did that in their other stories, they aren't twins here. My main thought for these is that if the characters are blood related siblings (such as North and South Italy, Canada and America, Norway and Iceland, etc) they were definitely siblings in their human lives (but Iceland and Norway may be an exception, I'm not sure yet) and if they are not blood related but are close (such as England and America or France and Canada) then they may or may not have been related in their human lives and it really depends on whether or not I can fit them into it. Some characters that are mentioned in these did not become countries (even if they died). And yes, I named Arthur's son Chester because of the place in Britain because Arthur isn't British in this chapter. He was born in Canada and moved to America, but he does have English descent. Mathieu is half French and part English (for obvious reasons). Oh, and I have had a teacher correct the spelling of my name on one of my papers when I was much younger, so that is based in reality.**


	17. Poland

**A/N I actually finished this and a new chapter for "Big Brother" a couple days ago and forgot to post them. Oopsie. WARNING: Strong homophobic language near the end. I don't believe in these hurtful words, but it s for the purposes of his death. If this offends you or you would rather not read it, there will be a summary in the beginning Author's Note of the next chapter. Honestly, it hurt me a little inside to write this.**

The young man ran the red makeup across his soft lips until the shade was to his liking. His eyelashes were fake, as were his nails, but his hair was naturally kept long enough to fall just a bit passed his chin, a reasonable style for a man or a woman. Nineteen year old college student, Feliks Lukasiewicz, strode out of his home with pride and confidence as he always did, his expensive heels (a gift from his mother) clicking on the concrete as he made his way to class. While he walked, Joasia approached him, smiling.

"Czesc, jak sie masz?" he greeted.

His friend said, "Bardzo dobrze, dziękuję. A ty?"

Feliks would have answered, but as he opened his mouth, his response was interrupted by a rough shove from behind and some rather crude words from another student. The boy scowled, but said nothing as he picked himself up off of the concrete.

"Are you alright?"

Feliks nodded and forced a smile, "It's okay, I'm fine." His voice did not change from the 'play-it-off' attitude he always had, and Joasia seemed to accept the answer, though she still seemed concerned. The pair continued walking to class.

Despite the odd looks he still received from his classmates, Feliks remained cheerful and friendly, not to mention quite outgoing. He loved to cut into conversations and greet people he had never seen before, much to the embarrassment of Joasia, who was much more introverted.

"Come on, Feliks, we're going to be late!" she complained grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to the class they shared together.

After class, Feliks and Joasia walked down the street toward their homes. He turned to her and flashed a smile.

"Want to go out tonight?"

"Hm? Sure, with who?"

"I thought it'd be just as, like, we haven't had a night together in for-EVER!"

She laughed and nodded, "Alright. Time, location?"

"I'll pick you up at seven and find us a nice place," he walked passed her, as her house was right there, and turned to blow her a kiss.

She smiled and waved to him before entering her home, greeted by her parents and little brother.

As the sky began to dim, later that evening, Feliks was slipping into a cute, sparkly mini-skirt and black tank top. He glossed his lips, did up his eyes, clipped back his blonde hair, and pulled on his heels before leaving the house to go pick up his friend.

The pair enjoyed a night of dancing, talking, drinking, and flirting, but around eleven o' clock, Joasia decided it was time for her to go home. She stumbled out of the club, despite being the one wearing flats, and called a taxi to pick her up, knowing Feliks wanted to stay longer, though he did offer to walk her home, and feeling uncomfortable with the idea of walking alone at night. They didn't live in a particularly bad neighborhood, but she had always been one to be on the safe side.

Though Feliks protested, and profusely reminded her that he was alright with leaving early with her, deep down, he truly did want to make the night last longer. He knew that she knew this, and also knew that she would not allow herself to be the reason he was made to leave so soon, so he eventually gave up when the cab pulled up to them and she stepped in.

He waved to her with one last, "Are you sure you don't just want to walk?" and at her nod and smile, he grinned and responded, "Goodnight, then!"

"Are we hanging out tomorrow?"

"Of course!"

Feliks watched as the taxi drove off, returning to the club for a couple more drinks before he, too, decided to head home. His mind was foggy with intoxication and his feet were killing him! Grumbling, he tore off his shoes and held them in his hand while he walked along the mostly deserted sidewalk.

"Hey look, boys!" a voice from just behind him caused Feliks to jump slightly, but he continued walking, until he felt a hand set lightly on his shoulder.

"Where you going, little lady?" a new voice asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see there were three of them. Men. Foreigners it seemed. Each one held an American accent and were strictly speaking English. Probably students, if Feliks were to take a guess; it wasn't like so many Americans were just dying to come to Poland.

The third young man stepped in front of the Pole with a devious smirk set upon his lips, brown eyes widening when he caught a good look at Feliks.

"Guys, he's a dude!" he announced to his buddies, who both snickered at each other, faces darkening.

"Ah, a Drag Queen, huh?" the light haired one cooed mockingly, "Didn't know they had that here."

"I'm not-"

"Shut up, fag," the one wearing a beanie silenced the blonde with a left hook to his cheek.

Feliks moaned and clutched at his cheek, then tried to scurry off, but the largest boy, the one currently holding his shoulder, locked him in a chokehold and nodded at his cohorts to do what they wished.

The light haired man pulled Feliks' hair to lift his eyes to meet his, then kneed the Pole in the stomach. Another one kicked his legs out from under him, causing his neck to almost snap in the tight hold of the presumed leader.

Feliks was released, tumbling to the concrete ground, and was thankful that it was over, thinking the boys had had their fun and were going to be on their way, but this hope diminished when he felt a tighter grip on his blonde locks and his skull was bashed into the sidewalk. Blood leaked from the side of his head, but it went almost unnoticed as the three began to kick and punch him. At one point, one of the foreigners shoved his face into the cement, holding him there until Feliks thrashed about for the need of oxygen. When he became dizzy and felt the life beginning to drain from him, that was when he was released, and Feliks felt that it would have been more humane for them to have let him die in that moment when he felt another sharp blow to his ribs.

"Stoj!" the young Pole cried, attempting to cover himself with his arms, but finding himself unable to do so, "Pomocy! POMOCY!"

His voice came out as a strangled cry of pain before disappearing with a kick to his throat, causing Feliks to burst into a fit of coughing.

The Americans continued bloodying the poor Polish man, shouting profanities and homophobic curses all the while. Pain filled Feliks, but was intensified in his chest, head, and privates from the repeated attacks. He felt very weak. Soon, the mess of amused, yet vicious words from the foreign students faded, jumbled into a parody of itself for no single word could be picked out from the others anymore, and Feliks closed his eyes.

/

Lithuania stared slightly at his friend. The blonde flashed a grin and shouted amiably, "I look cute, right?!"

"Eh..."

The sweater was baggy, nearly engulfing Poland's hands and the skirt was much too short even for a girl to wear.

"Sure, if you're a seventh grade school girl..." Lithuania muttered.

He found Poland's affinity for femininity to be a bit...odd, to say the least, but the blonde was still his friend, albeit a poor one, and he knew that wouldn't change.

**A/N I still refer to him as a male because I think he identifies as male but likes to cross-dress, similar to myself, so please don't think I'm insensitive, and yes, I know he doesn't cross-dress nearly as often as fans make it seem, but I found it to be fitting and different from the other deaths. By the way, he is timid around strangers as a nation (this is cannon), but in my story, he is not like that as a human. This is because of the way he died, which changed his personality a bit. Also, he comes from a well off family and is quite spoilt, which is part of why he can be selfish and seem a bit spoilt in the anime. Oh, and also, I got a review about Iceland's chapter asking why his hair and eye color changed (I was concerned that might be confusing, I meant to say something about it in the Author's Note for that chapter); Emil's hair color is light blonde and he has blue eyes, but as the country of Iceland, his eyes are violet and his hair is silver-ish. I did this because those are not natural colors for hair and eyes in our world, and I sort of wanted to show that their human stories take place in our world, so unnatural hair/eye colors don't exist without contacts and dye, magic doesn't exist (because it's unproven in our world), etc, but as countries, their world is separate from ours, even if there are still humans in their world. Does that make sense?**


	18. America II

**A/N I saw that somebody favorited/followed this story, so I figured I should come out with another chapter (finally!). Inspiration has been a bit slow with this one, so I figured I would finally write one of my original ideas. This was the first idea I had for America. Trigger warning, as this has to do with bulimia and bullying in a semi-graphic manner. **

The bile tore at his throat as it expelled from his mouth into the toilet. He heaved again, and more brownish liquid mixed with tonight's dinner came up from his stomach. After a few moments, when only acid was left to travel through his throat, the young man wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and wandered, slightly dazed, to the sink. He turned on the faucet and splashed the cool water on his face, grabbed the miniature bottle of Listerine from his mirror cabinet, and rinsed his mouth to banish the foul flavor.

After turning off the water and opening the door, the teenager wandered over to his bed and allowed gravity to pull him onto it, his face burying into the soft pillow. Tears slipped from his blue eyes, an involuntary action induced by the memories of harsh words spewed at him, and the burn still caught in his throat. It was like this, that he fell asleep.

/

A loud blast of Shinedown drew the young man from his slumber. Tuesday. He had morning classes. Alfred sat up groggily, rubbing at his eyes, and stripped himself from his clothing. He showered and zipped up his jeans before moving to the closet and finding a shirt. It was a white T-shirt with the American flag printed graffiti-style in the center. For months, it had been too small for him, but he had refused to get rid of it, still holding out hope that he could wear his favorite shirt once more. Now, he was able to, but it didn't feel special anymore. The size S tee was baggy and unfitted, hanging off of him in a sloppy sort of manner.

Alfred grunted and held a hand to his chest softly, also noticing that his throat's soreness did not seem to have improved. That was alright; it would probably go away soon. He exited his room and entered the kitchen, where his father was eating a bowl of Fruit Loops. His mother must have already left for work. The boy grabbed his bookbag from off the back of one of the kitchen chairs and headed toward the front door, throwing a wave over his shoulder.

"Bye, Dad!"

"School breakfast today, Al?" the man questioned.

Alfred turned with a shove and forced smile, "It's free, might as well."

"You're going to give yourself a heart attack with all the fat and cholesterol in the crap they serve you," but his voice held a touch of laughter to it, meaning he wasn't all that concerned, "But you'll probably work it off. I'm so proud of all the exercise you've been doing lately."

"Thanks. See you."

His father shoved another spoonful of his breakfast in between his lips, responding only with a shift of his hand in the air.

If it weren't so late, Alfred would probably have opted for walking to school, but if he did that, he wouldn't be able to see Sam and Leonard, so he instead waited for the ten minutes it took for the bus to arrive and sat quietly next to a girl he didn't know, whilst staring out the window.

The young lady kept glancing at him curiously, opening her mouth slightly, as if wishing to engage him in conversation, but then deciding not to, probably out of respect for his wishes to be left alone. There was a time, not too long ago, that she wouldn't have to begin a conversation, because half a year ago, he would have started talking the moment she sat down, probably munching on a Danish or muffin and smiling broadly.

When the bus stopped at the school, Alfred was one of the first students off, walking briskly to the cafeteria and scanning the room for his friends. Sam was seated at a table near the (currently closed) salad bar, speaking amiably to Mathew, Kristie, Mark, and Jonas. Alfred walked over to them and sat next to the only female at the table. She smiled at him, but then turned back to Sam, who was in the middle of telling a, seemingly exciting, story about his trip to Chicago last week during Winter Break. Alfred smiled and pulled out a Gameboy from his bag, tapping at the nostalgic console heatedly until he felt a tap at his shoulder. He looked up.

"What did you do over Break?" Kristie asked, pulling her hood up over her dark brown curls.

Alfred looked down at the table, eyeing some of the crumbs already accumulating on its surface, and with a shrug muttered, "Nothing really. What about you?"

"I had to babysit my cousins while my parents went out shopping," she groaned, "I love them to death, but I can't listen to any of my music when they're around, can't play any of my games when they're around, and can't watch any of my anime when they're around."

"So, Winer Break was a bust for you, huh?" Jonas laughed, setting a hand on her shoulder lightly, "You could try doing their makeup or nails or something?"

The girl stared at him as if he had lost his mind, "Yeah, 'cause I know how to do that," she hissed sarcastically.

"What's all the arguing about?" Leonard asked, setting down a small tray holding a sausage, egg, and cheese English muffin sandwich, a chocolate milk carton, a container of mixed fruit, an orange juice packet, and a package of white, plastic silverware. Before anyone could answer, he looked at the empty space in front of the boy he was seated next to, "Hey, Al, where's your food? Did you eat already?"

Alfred looked up, startled, "What? Um, no, I ate at home today."

"Again? Alright, but they're serving sausage egg McMuffins."

"I know, I'm trying to get healthy though, you know?"

"Hm? Oh, right, forgot," the other boy said around a mouthful of food before swallowing a piece maybe a little too big, "Sorry."

The rest of Alfred's day continued, and far too soon was it lunch time. He and his friends sat at the table, and the blonde was the only one not eating. Sam stared at him incredulously.

"Alright, now I know you're sick. You're not eating lunch?!"

"I'm not very hungry."

"Al," Kristie lightly reprimanded, concern suffusing her voice, "You haven't had lunch for, like, the past week. You need to eat something."

"I just haven't been that hungry!" Alfred responded defensively, "I've been trying to get healthy-"

"Starving yourself isn't healthy-"

"I'm _not _starving myself!" he snapped, "I eat. My stomach has just shrunk because I haven't been eating as much, which is _not _a bad thing, Kris. Just drop it."

The girl stared at him, eyes still shining with anxiety, but her lips remained closed. Despite this, the indignant boy continued.

"I'm not anorexic or anything," he claimed.

"We never said you were," Mathew defended.

"No, but that's what you were implying, wasn't it?"

Kristie shook her head, looking down. Alfred stopped for a moment, tensing his body.

"Dude, what's up with you?" Leonard demanded, grabbing his arm and pulling him down into his seat.

"I-I'm sorry, Kris, I just…I'm sorry. You're just being a good friend. Just…stress, I guess," Alfred clenched his eyes shut and sighed, "Thanks for being worried."

"It's okay, I shouldn't be nosey, anyway."

"So," Sam cut in, always the defuser of tense situations, "Anyone up for the movies this weekend?"

"Sure," Kristie smiled, turning her attention to him.

"'Course!" Jonas eagerly nodded several times, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"Can't," Al admitted, "weight training. And then I was going to run a few miles and…"

"Man, you've been working so hard at those athletics and stuff, take a break," Jonas sighed, leaning his arms behind his head, "Take it from someone who does sports."

"Basketball's not football, and besides, it's really been working. I swear!" he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, "It's not fat anymore. It's turning into muscle. I'm so excited."

"Well, just don't work yourself too hard, okay, dude?"

"Promise."

/

He took the steroids by mouth. Needles made him squeamish. He couldn't quite tell yet if they were working though. The only difference he had really noticed after beginning this routine was an outbreak of pimples on his shoulders and back. Alfred wasn't even sure he was taking them, right. He had tried to search the internet for how to use them to help build muscle, but mostly he found propaganda about how they should not be taken unless prescribed.

Alfred didn't take them _that _often though, just once or twice a week before he was going to work out. And it wasn't like he was addicted or anything. So, it wasn't a big deal.

He arrived home a few hours later, feeling as though he might collapse. Alfred had pushed himself today; he had worked hard and now his entire body ached painfully, but that was alright, it just meant he was gaining muscle. No pain no gain, right? The boy didn't even acknowledge his mother as he walked to his room and immediately fell upon his bed, closing his eyes and hoping to take a nap. He would need to shower; sweat glazed his body like one of the donuts he used to love to ea-

"Don't talk about stuff like that," he berated himself aloud, "You don't need it."

Honestly, right now, he wanted to punch whoever invented such tantalizing treats such as those. He grumbled to himself and turned over onto his belly, burying his sweat soaked face into his arms, crossed over one another. In this position, after working his body so harshly, it did not take long for him to drift off.

"Al, are you okay?"

That was his mother's voice. He opened his eyes and saw that he was turned on his side. With a small groan, the teenager sat up and rubbed at his eyes, then glanced at his mother who exhaled with a small, relieved smile.

"You…weren't waking up…Are you alright, Alfred?"

"Yeah, Mom, just tired," the blonde wiped at his eyes again, still feeling very groggy and slightly light-headed.

He grinned and stood up, following his mother out of the room.

"Dinner's ready," she had said, causing the boy to stop.

"Uh, actually, Mom, I don't think I'm very-"

The woman turned on her heel sharply, a stern glare fixed on him, "Alfred F. Jones, you will eat everything on your plate. You have _not _been eating enough lately. I know you might not be hungry, but you need to eat. Especially if you want to bulk up like you've been talking about. Now come on."

Alfred bit his lip, glancing away and mentally cursing his parents' perceptiveness, but followed despite himself. He didn't really have much choice, did he?

/

He knew he shouldn't. The teenager tore through the kitchen, not really caring about how much noise he was making, but it seemed that he was quiet enough, because no one had come yet. No! His binge day wasn't until next week! He needed to wait. But…he was so hungry!

The boy pushed aside condiments and drinks in the fridge, wrapping his fingers around a plastic container. Unclicking the green lid and tossing it aside revealed left over veggie pizza. Alfred was sure he must be drooling at the sight of such deliciousness and he shoved it into his mouth. The taste barely touched his tongue, but it was enough to awaken the predator within him.

He ate, and ate, even after he felt full. Alfred just needed food. It was amazing at the moment, but something within him…it just felt wrong. He wasn't supposed to be doing this. It was like the instincts of his primal needs had taken control of him, and his body and mind was just a puppet for his ravenous appetite to control, yanking strings back and forth, forcing him to eat, and eat.

Alfred collapsed onto the tile floor, sobbing, sending a now empty container spinning across the room until it hit a wall.

He had made a mistake. The young man had screwed up, and now he needed to fix it. Now that he was thinking clearly, he needed to mend his fault.

The boy journeyed to his room on unsteady legs and walked into the bathroom attached. He dropped to his knees, clutching the sides of the toilet as if it was his lifeline, and leaned over. Alfred had always hated the feeling of sticking his fingers down his throat, so he had experimented with alternate methods to induce regurgitation. The one he had found to be most effective for him was thinking nasty thoughts, mostly eating rotten foods and watching people vomit. He had trained himself to envision these things by watching videos and now it came clearly. Within five seconds, he was emptying the contents of his bloated stomach into the toilet, hating the feeling, but knowing he had to.

Several times, he nearly choked, and almost thought he would asphyxiate, but thankfully, as more bile emerged, it pushed the suffocation out of him. He retched until there was very little left, but he needed to get it all out. He could feel the food still sloshing about in his stomach! But as he heaved, he realized nothing was coming up. He shoved his index and middle fingers down his esophagus and in just a moment, he was expelling the acid from himself. There was still more in him! He just knew!

Alfred pushed his fingers down his throat again. Tears filled his vision as he forced up the juices in his stomach. His breathing was ragged, his skin was once more covered in a layer of perspiration, and his throat felt raw, nearly numb. He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled. It felt nearly impossible to complete this process now. His heart was so clear in his ears, so fast, so clear, so fast, so…

The young man collapsed, breath shallow, and painful. Painful. Dizziness swam in his head, and his vision was so foggy…he could not see a thing. A coughing fit sent him on his side, which caused pain to flare up in all of his muscles. As he coughed, he felt something warm and liquid trickled down his chin from his lips. Now that he thought about it, his vomit had seemed awfully red, hadn't it? Ugh, his chest felt like someone was sitting on it, or, as if he were drowning. Breathe, just breathe. He had to remind himself to do so.

So fast, his heart was so fast. Painful. Blood spattered against the floor every time he coughed. His chest hurt so badly! It was sharp, like he was being stabbed and drowned at once.

Painful…

He saw nothing. He felt pain. And then his heart could no longer be heard in his ears.

/

A little boy stared up at the sun, smiling brightly. The breeze was light and playful, ruffling his hair and swaying the tall grass that surrounded him. A sweet young child, innocent and pure, for the time being. The poorly whispering voices caught his attention, and the boy turned to see two men, staring excitedly at him.

Little America grinned and waved.

**A/N So, I am also going to be focusing on rewriting some of the old chapters to make them more detailed and more appealing, since I wrote a lot of these a while ago, and did not focus as much on detail, more trying to get across my thoughts on how they might have died, so if you wish, feel free to check out some of the old chapters again in a week or so. Also, I was going to make Alfred in college this time, and then, halfway through writing this, I forgot to make him a college student. Oh well. I guess the twins are just doomed to always be high school students in this story. And I didn't mention Canada in this one, just because there was no real reason to, but I still presume they're brothers. The Mathew that he talks to is just an Easter Egg of sorts.**

**And, some of the symptoms of bulimia are mood swings, weight loss (obviously), tooth decay which causes bad breath, and sore throat (partly due to the stomach acid going up so often), so I tried to portray that in this story. There are several ways for this to cause death, such as stomach ulcers, and many others, but I decided to go with heart failure, because that can be caused by all three problems he has (steroids, overworking, and bulimia). **


	19. Denmark

**A/N So, I looked it up, and apparently cancer is the most common form of death in Denmark, according to a study conducted in 2013, and not only is it the highest form of death in Denmark, but the amount of cancer cases in this country is higher than most other places in the world. And then I thought I would go with liver cancer from alcoholism because we all know he is a heavy drinker, so this may seem stereotypical, but at least there's reason, and honestly, I've wanted to do Denmark for a while but couldn't think of anything, so this is literally the best I could come up with.**

Another shot of pain ran up his nervous system, originating in the abdomen region. Christensen grunted in pain and clutched at his overcoat where his belly was buried beneath the warm confines of the cotton. His friend, Anderson, glanced at the young Bertram man curiously.

"Are you…alright?" the younger man, by just two years at twenty three, asked his friend in a concerned manner.

It took a few moments for Christensen to answer, but he swallowed the pain and nodded before verbally replying, "Yes."

"Are you sure? Because you don't have to-"

"I said I am alright. Come on."

The taller blonde began walking ahead and Anderson rushed to catch up after wasting his time staring at the elder's retreating back. His protests and concerns fell upon deaf ears attached to the same face that held lips which only spoke assurances and stubbornness. Anderson gave up with a short, irritated sigh, and agreed to drop the subject, but his friend had been experiencing such pain for a short while now and it was beginning to concern the younger Danish man. Christensen was strong willed and seemed to have an inability to listen to others. As such, he probably wouldn't even see a doctor if it was a life or death situation, unless forced by somebody else. In a way, he could be such a child.

Both men arrived at the library where Christensen was to keep Anderson company while the younger studied for his finals. Christensen had forgone college, opting instead to work at his parents' store, selling trinkets and dolls and other useless items mostly to tourists, but even if he had gone to a University, he would most probably have graduated by now, and therefore had not stepped foot inside a library in years. Led alone, the largest library within all of the Nordic region, located in Copenhagen, and deemed Denmark's national library: The Royal Library.

After stepping inside, Christensen fell short, staring with wide eyes. His friend had continued walking, only noticing the other's absence half a minute later, before turning with a slight, questioning smirk across his thin lips.

"What? It's the Copenhagen University Library."

"It's so big," Christensen said simply.

Anderson repeated, "It's a University Library."

The elder looked at his friend and continued walking with the college student in tow. Anderson didn't actually need any books from here, he had already checked out any study materials he may have required. He just wanted a quiet place to study, besides his dorm room. The two wandered to the Black Diamond, a study area provided for students and researchers. Several people, mostly in the age range of early twenties, were seated in one 142 seats or many desks, but it wasn't as crowded as it sometimes was. Anderson was relieved by this, but Christensen already knew he would be restless. Why did Anderson even need him? He was just going to have his nose in a book or scribbling down notes while Christensen was slowly dying of boredom.

The two found their place in the wave of studiers, and Christensen's prediction became a dull reality for him. Anderson basically ignored him once he picked up his pencil and book, and entirely ignored the older man. So, Christensen being Christensen, began pestering the younger. Anderson growled, frustrated, and stage whispered for the elder blonde to  
go to the bathroom or something".

Christensen grinned, placing one knuckle upon his hip and shifting his weight, "You're the one who wanted me here."

The student sighed and took to ignoring his companion until, after almost thirty minutes, Christensen took to nervously swallowing down nausea and appearing quite pale.

"Actually, I think I might go to the restroom," he said weakly, coughing into his sleeve and retreating to the toilets, where he proceeded to eject his day's worth of food from his stomach.

After vomiting the contents of his nutritional sources, he returned to his friend who was alarmed at the elder's appearance. Dribble, unwiped from his chine, still hung from his face and the distinct smell of sick radiated off of the weak Dane, but his looks seemed much more sickly in the short while they had been at the institution.

"Christensen!" Anderson bothered not to be quiet, despite his surroundings.

Surprise crept onto said Dane's hollow, yellow-tinted face when his friend, always a stickler for social confines and regulations, had disturbed many of the other students surrounding them.

"We need to get you to a hospital," the younger demanded, grabbing his keys and grabbing his friend by the arm, abandoning his study materials for the moment.

Christenson pulled away, offering a weak smile in a poor attempt at encouragement. "I'm fine," he assured, "Just not feeling the best today. I'll go home and take a nap or something, you stay here and ace that exam!"

Anderson shook his head, "No. You need to see a doctor and-Christensen!"

The older man had collapsed, nearly toppling atop a young, raven haired girl barely out of high school. Startled, the girl screeched and jumped back while Anderson rushed over to the aid of his friend. Christensen was unresponsive. The younger tore his mobile phone from his pocket and furiously dialed 112 for an ambulance, but somewhere inside of him, he knew his friend was probably gone.

/

In the sun of a land based Nordic country, a blonde child stood with his friends, Norway and Sweden. The memories of alcohol abuse and collapsing due to liver cancer erased from his mind, the boy was given a new start away from a hard life of working and emotional neglectful parents to an eternity as the eldest among his surrogate brothers. He grinned at young Norway, who allowed a small smile to grace his small lips as the three Viking nations chatted about nothing and everything. Only occasionally would the name "Anderson" echo in the eldest blonde's mind.


	20. Norway

**A/N So, I had started this a while back, and just sort of forgot about it (whoops), but then I got a request to write Norway and the memories came flooding back. Sorry for the wait, but I'm actually pretty proud of the way this came out.**

The sound of rushing water was soothing to him, flowing from the waterfall overhead. The blonde teenager stared at the crystalline water reflecting the light of the sun from a hole in the ceiling with a certain serenity. He knew he should not have left the group, but if he had stayed any longer, he was sure he would have cried, and he refused to give the other children the satisfaction of witnessing thus. Besides, how would he have ever attained such peaceful bliss if he had continued on in a group of rowdy, uninterested high schoolers?

Lukas wiped at his cheeks and eyes with the sleeve of his deep indigo shirt, sighing to himself. It was difficult to place a mask of indifference upon his face every day, despite the teasing, the threats, the abuse, the bullying. He knew his life didn't suck as badly as it could, but it was so difficult to follow such a proverb when these problems were his and had haunted him since he had begun school. Because, even though his life could be worse than it was, it could also have been better.

He leaned on the railing that separated him from a steep drop to the glistening stalagmites below, being sure not to rest too much weight on it, so as to not push his luck and end up seeing those formations quite closely. The soft sound of footsteps, and then the laughter of high school boys, echoed throughout this part of the cave. Lukas stood straight and stepped slightly away from the edge, despite the barrier that separated him from his death. The noises grew louder as the sources were nearing, and Lukas closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and composing his face into the expressionless mask he was now used to wearing.

The first boy appeared, chin length black hair and mischievous blue eyes, a Senior, like Lukas. His name was Jan, quite a common name for a not so common boy, and Lukas knew that name all too well. At a slightly shorter stature, but with built up muscles hiding under his baggy hoodie, was the Becken boy, Eirik. The third one was a Junior, someone Lukas didn't recognize, but Eirik referred to him as Marius.

"Hey, Lukas," Jan purred dangerously, approaching the thinner boy, "Mr. Felland wanted us to come get you."

"Why did you run off?" Eirik demanded in a giddy tone, "Now we're missing this wonderful tour."

Lukas knew that wasn't true. All the boys had done throughout the entire trip was complain about how boring it was. He wouldn't be surprised if the three volunteered to come find him, but if that wasn't the case, he was sure their teacher simply wanted to rid the group of the troublemakers, even for just a few blissful moments. At least one of the three probably had to sneak away from the group just to come, because there was no reason to send more than two children. But, the Bondevik boy held his tongue, as usual.

He gasped slightly when he felt rough hands pull at the collar of his shirt, choking him slightly and forcing him onto the tips of his toes. Lukas tried to swallow, with some difficulty, but stared stubbornly into the blue eyes of his assaulter.

"He asked you a question, pikk."

Lukas remained silent, but kicked out at the taller boy, his hands reaching up to stop his shirt from completely cutting off his airway. When Jan noticed this, he let Lukas go temporarily. Said teenager fell to the ground, which was cold and slightly damp with the waterfall's splashing. He did not get up.

"Fleskepanne," Lukas muttered bitterly to the ground.

A short laugh rang out, and Lukas knew he had been heard. Footsteps approaching him. Suddenly, he was pulled back to his feet by three pairs of hands, tugging at his arms and clothes. The three boys laughed whilst hitting him, biting him, pulling his head back by his hair, and overall just tormenting him.

"Hey, he likes these types of places, doesn't he?" Eirik laughed, "Why don't we throw him over the railing so he can stay here forever!"

Marius laughed and Jan caught Lukas' face with his strong hand, turning the smaller boy's head to face him, "You'd like that, wouldn't you, skinkerytter?"

Lukas grunted and tried to pull away, feeling the bar dig into his back and becoming fearful of their intent. The children at school were annoying, and made him feel awful every day, but did any of them truly intend to kill him?

The hands gripping his shirt and arms shoved him playfully, but much harder than intended. Lukas gasped, then shouted, as he tumbled forward, feeling the ground leave the presence of his feet and twisting whilst in midair, clawing at the air uselessly, desperately attempting to hold onto a ledge or branch or anything which could save his life.

His peers' laughter had ceased long ago and was replaced by frantic shouts of fear and confusion. What had they done? What should they do now? Would they be in trouble if they got an adult and truthfully explained what happened?

The last thing Lukas heard before a stalagmite pierced his heart was, "We'll just say we couldn't find him. They'll think he tripped or something."

/

Norway growled and yanked the tie around his friend's neck up, successfully choking the Dane, but not enough to cause any permanent harm.

"Norge!" Denmark protested, clawing at the tie, "You're choking me!"

"Yes," was the younger's response.

"Stóri bróðir?"

Norway immediately released the taller blonde and both men turned to the doorway, where a small, silver haired child stood, rubbing at his tired eyes with his small hands.

"Island," Norway muttered softly, walking over to the little boy and lifting him into his arms, "Is something the matter, lille venn?"

Denmark flashed a grin and said, "You were probably making too much noise trying to kill me," which Norway pointedly ignored.


	21. Wy

**A/N First off, I would like to recognize NekoRyuuKo for their wonderfully detailed and kind review of this story and the Guest who requested the last chapter (a Norway one). Seriously guys, reviews are one of the things that keeps me motivated the most. I really am here for you guys, so if there's ever anything (critiques, requests, whatever) that you want to say, I'm all for criticism and listening to you guys. Alright, so, sappiness aside, I decided to challenge myself with this chapter, so pardon if it isn't all that good, but Wy doesn't get enough love.**

Her brush dipped into the splatter of purple paint on the stained palette, the bristles transferring the color to her canvas. Alone in her room sat a young girl of the age twelve, the youngest of a large family born to not-so-wealthy Australian parents. Wendy pulled the down the end of her khaki shorts, which were riding up while she was sitting on the paint tainted stool placed in the corner of her small room, shared with two of her sisters, near her art supplies. It was one of the few times she was happy, when she was creating.

She was in control when she drew or painted, and could create anything she wanted. A world where she was noticed and known. Fantasy, reality. The girl smiled, balancing the paintbrush on the edge of the easel and admiring her work. It wasn't the best painting in the world, she knew, but she was quite excellent when compared to her peers, especially for her young age. Maybe not a prodigy, but above the rest was fine with her.

The front door opened and the middle-school aged girl sighed, setting her paintbrush down and hiding the art she had created in her little chest that only she knew how to open properly, besides, of course, her mother who had gifted her with the only means of keeping her items unharmed. It was only moments later that the girl's peacefulness was interrupted by two older girls barging into the room, followed by a boy only a couple years her senior. The boy's resemblance to her was striking, and the two children were often mistaken for twins due to his short stature and her unwavering maturity. She sat on the decorative chest protectively, her nimble fingers absent-mindedly tracing the swirls and curves of the leaves, tree, and comforting words. It was the one thing that the girls who shared her room would never dare vandalize, as it was technically their mother's.

Noah, her older brother, approached her, while his fellow high schoolers hung back, Sidney texting something on her mobile and Olivia pulling out her homework to begin working on the problems she would no doubt ultimately force Wendy to complete.

"Hey dork," Noah grinned, wrestling her into a chokehold and rubbing her scalp painfully with his knuckle.

She whined and thrashed about, but knew she could not overpower the high school Freshman, so opted for going limp until he ceased his grip on her and she dropped to the ground. Wendy stayed silent.

"You're boring," Noah complained, kicking at her stomach and rolling his eyes.

"Wendy, come help me," Olivia demanded, glaring at her homework as if it were sentient.

"I don't want to," Wendy growled, picking herself off of the floor and running to the door to hopefully avoid the repercussions of her words.

But the room was set up against her. Olivia's bed was right near the only door and Sidney had been leaning against the wall next to it anyway. Both girls grabbed her arms and forced her back, the eldest kicking the door shut and grinning maliciously at the younger girl. Wendy knew the types of things that would happen. She had been through this basically as long as she could remember, always written off as "kids being kids" and that they would "outgrow it", but that never happened. Wendy closed her eyes and bit down on her lip, praying for her mother to be home with Connor soon.

/

She was alone. Wendy was always alone. A house full of four siblings and two parents, but she was alone. The youngest child, the baby of the family, was not supposed to be treated this way. Wasn't she supposed to get all the attention? Weren't her older brothers and sisters supposed to take care of her, and protect her, and love her? Wasn't she supposed to get away with everything and be adored? She had never known such a feeling.

One of the few places she had learned to hide out while her parents were busy was under the counter in the living room with the curtains concealing her. It separated the family room from the dining room turned brothers' room on one side, but the entrance to Connor and Noah's room was through the kitchen. If there's one thing she learned from living in a house full of bullies, it was survival skills. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her chin resting upon them with her arms wrapped around her legs as she tried to cry as quietly as possible, aching all over and wishing she could just leave.

Her father, Jack, would be home soon, and Ava, her mother, would begin supper and she would be required to come out and hope that her siblings didn't see where she had crawled out of. No one seemed to realize that the shelving unit was still big enough for her to stay in if she ducked her head. Currently, Noah was watching television in the living room. She would need to wait for him to leave, praying that nobody else came in, before she left. Footsteps. Dang it. Wendy opened a small slit in the royal blue curtains to see her other brother, a fellow middle schooler, walking into view with a sour expression upon his face.

"Have you seen Wendy?" he muttered bitterly to Noah, "Little brat freaking killed my phone."

Noah looked from his younger brother to the water damaged phone and bit back an amused smirk, but shook his head, "No, haven't seen her since I got home."

Connor sighed and walked passed the curtain, looking out the window to see if their father was home yet, but the driveway was empty of his car. Wendy tensed as she saw the shadow of her brother go passed her again, holding her breath, though the tears still leaked from her eyes. Frustrated, the boy kicked his soccer ball in her general direction, unknowingly, and little Wendy got a face full of the ball. She let out a soft yelp and Connor perked up with a sly grin on his face as he approached and drew the curtains back, revealing his very terrified little sister.

Wendy glanced to the side where she saw Noah standing. Even though she knew it was a lost cause, she scrambled to her knees and tried to dash off, but Connor grabbed her by the hood of her oversized pink jacket. He yanked her to her feet and laughed in her face, spitting words at her while she focused on trying to pull away.

"Hey girls," Noah called, also getting a good grip on the youngest, "We found little Wendy here hiding!"

The twelve year old wriggled in the grips of her brothers, turning a pleading glance to the girls who only greeted her with a smile and short laugh.

"Hold her for me," Connor requested.

Normally, the boy wouldn't have been so bold to order his elder brother around, but his mind was more concerned with vengeance, and he was beginning to get used to being on a similar level as his older siblings. Besides, he was quite positive that Noah would have no issue restraining the littlest member of the female.

Wendy struggled and whimpered slightly, kicking her feet backward to hopefully get at the shin of her brother, but all it did was piss Noah off and he twisted her arm painfully behind her back until she cried out. Sidney laughed again and came to flick the little girl in the head, saying something that Wendy wasn't paying attention to. Her eyes, once closed, widened in painful shock as Connor kicked her in the stomach, shouting at her. He then threw his now useless phone at her head, hitting her in the forehead, leaving an angry red mark on her fair skin. The screen shattered and bits of glass sprinkled down her shirt.

Sidney, noticing this, began to pull up her shirt with the claimed intentions of getting the glass out, but Wendy knew it was to humiliate her. She managed to pull one of her arms free from the grasp of her brother and covered herself, face flushing, but her free hand was soon grabbed by Olivia, who stood faithfully next to her older sister. Noah pushed her forward so her face was on the ground and rested one of his feet on her back, adding more and more weight until she was sure her back would break. The others were laughing above her, making fun of her, and Wendy buried her face into the carpet, sobbing quietly.

"Aw, don't be like that," Noah mocked her, grabbing her by the back of her hair and pulling her into a sitting position. Her white belly-shirt floated down to its normal position, "We're just having fun."

"Yeah," Connor agreed, "A little family-bonding time."

Wendy really wished her mother had taken her to the store with her, and hoped desperately that her father would be home soon, but she had a feeling she would be waiting for a while. The personality inside of her, the one that had been buried deep into her subconscious and suppressed with all the abuse and bullying she suffered, told her not to go down, instructed her to fight, but she wasn't sure she was able. She knew she couldn't win, but she didn't need to sit here and take it. With an infuriated shout, she lashed out, punching and thrashing and screeching at the older children, tears streaming down her reddened face.

"What a brat," the eighteen year old said, "She's throwing a temper tantrum."

Olivia, at sixteen, smirked at the oldest child. Connor kicked his foot up again, nailing Wendy under the chin and the smaller middle schooler was sure her head would pop off. She threw her fist out and caught the boy in the ankle. He cried out in pain and hopped up and down a few times.

Noah glared at his younger sister and brought his fist down on the top of her head. "Little bitch!" he snarled.

The eldest boy released Wendy and the others soon became bored and left, leaving the girl there on the floor to sob. She turned bitterly to their direction and shouted, "I hate you! I hope you die!"

Thankfully, it did not spur a repeat session of what she had just endured, but only induced laughter from her siblings. Wendy stayed there, staring numbly at the ground, until she heard the click of the front door opening and furiously wiped any leftover moisture from her eyes and forced a smile onto her lips. Her father was home.

/

The front door opened, but her back was to it, and she did not plan on turning away, no matter who stood there.

"What…are you doing?"

Connor. She spun around and glared hatefully at her brother.

"I'm leaving! I am tired of everything here. I will sell my paintings for a living and get through high school on my own so tell Mum and Dad when they wake up but you aren't stopping me," she spat and turned back toward the gravelly driveway, slipping her feet into her sandals and running down the slope to the where the road stood. Wendy did not hear what Connor had said, but she never heard footsteps running after her, nor did she hear the door shut again.

She had emptied her backpack while her sisters were sleeping and packed her canvases, paints, and brushes along with clothes and some food and bottled water. Mentally, the girl cursed herself for forgetting some of her favorite paintings, but they would be no use to her now and she needed to conserve space, so it didn't matter much, now did it?

Wendy kept her head down, thinking about the logic of this plan. She had always been a very down to Earth child, if not a bit strong-willed and maybe slightly impulsive, but she was beginning to doubt herself at this moment. It was a matter of enduring the abuse at home, or facing whatever lay ahead, bring that way what may.

"Hey brat!" a familiar voice rang out.

She growled and dashed forward, more sure than ever that she was making the right choice, until she heard the screech of her eldest sister.

"WENDY!"

She had failed to notice the car driving down the road she had decided to run out into, away from her home, from her parents and siblings, until she was laying in the same street with a pool of blood surrounding her. The sound of an opening door and frantic shouting of her sister and a confused, distressed man.

/

"Well, if that's the case, then I'll just become my own nation," Wy stated stubbornly.

Australia sighed, staring at his "little sister" in slight frustration until she dropped her gaze and walked out. The young girl, despite the odds, made good on her threat, and found herself in the bizarre situation with a boy her physical age, Sealand, and an older boy who called himself Seborga. Wy sighed to herself while the boys were…um…she didn't quite know what was happening anymore.

"I wonder," she muttered to herself, "Will people start lumping me with these knuckle-heads just because I'm new?"

**A/N Because Wy is a micronation that separated from Australia, I thought I would play with the idea of her running away (hence, separating from her family) and because "land transport accidents" are one of the leading causes of death for ages 1-14 in Australia, I thought I would play with that instead of having her get eaten by something. And the house she lives in is entirely based on my grandmother's old trailer for no reason in particular. I also wanted her personality to be almost opposite of what it is in the anime, but sort of like this is what her personality is, but it has been suppressed because of the bullying and depression, so that's why she's super timid and just takes it until the very end where her true personality comes out more. Side note, this one did make me cry a little. The bullying part struck a little too close to home, in the fact that it was heavily based on things that happened to me when she's being beaten up by all the others. **


End file.
